Secrets of Siroc
by hedanicree
Summary: From Young Blades The musketeer Siroc is an inventor, a genius, and a brother-in-arms, but the quiet musketeer has his share of secrets, of which he's never shared. But when a strange young woman from the past appears, some secrets are bound to be reveale
1. Chapter 1

SECRETS OF SIROC

_Disclaimer: I do not own Young Blades or the characters within, save the original characters created by me. _

_A/N: My apologies if scene breaks/formatting does not hold. I've been fighting to get those to keep on upload and have finally given up trying to make it work. I have put extra spaces between scenes, but those holding have also been iffy._

_This is for Sally "Jedi," who got me started on this fic so long ago, and for Jean and Daring, who managed to get me to start writing on this again after more than a year's haitus. — Dani_

**SECRETS OF SIROC**

**Prologue**

We only see the surface, the characteristics that define our world — the color of skin or even the class society places a man in. But locked beneath the façades, secrets dwell. In darkness, they lie in wait for the day they will be revealed. They wait for victims to rise up, stand their ground and put aside painful memories instead of hiding in distractions. Fear forces us to go through the motions of living; we fail to act or do what's right. But if we seek the truth and face the past, the secrets will always be revealed.

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter One: A Man Before His Time**

Siroc closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Dark bags hung under his eyes but he shook off the fatigue as he picked up his notebook and quill, scratching a few notes.

He looked up from his notebook toward the window. The grey light of dawn had crept up on him. Once again, he had worked all night, lost in determination and his inventions. His hand quickly went to his mouth, stifling a yawn. He stretched out his arms over his head, closed his eyes tightly then quickly opened them. He was determined to finish.

He picked up a small stirring stick, and then dipped it in the clear liquid that sat in a bowl on the table. He lifted the stick out slowly and moved it away from the bowl and let one drip fall from the stick into another bowl on the table.

The explosion sent him flying backward.

The sound of the explosion echoed through the garrison. Instinctively Captain Duval, who had just finished dressing, crouched and covered his head. "What in the …" he started, rushing from his room. His footsteps were resounded by the sound of shattered glass falling against stone. His eyes briefly scanned the garrison. Noting that everything was intact, dread filled him and his mouth went dry. He pushed past several musketeers who stood barely clad in the hall, obviously awoken by the sudden noise. He knew exactly what had happened but silently hoped he was wrong.

Captain Duval stood in front of Siroc's laboratory door. He pushed once, but the door opened only mere inches. Smoke trickled through the small gap. He shoved again, forcing the shelving that had fallen in the door's path enough to allow him entrance and was immediately greeted by rushing smoke. He covered his mouth and nose, coughing. His boots crunched wood and glass as he squeezed through the door. "Siroc?" he called between coughing fits. There was no answer. He held his breath and fanned the smoke away from his face. "Siroc!" he called again, moving through the room as the smoke finally began to clear.

Duval turned around. His eyes locked on a figure that lay slumped against the wall, head hanging forward. "Siroc!" Duval yelled. This time his voice was full of alarm. Duval went for the inventor but before he could take a step, Ramon and d'Artagnan were already by his side. D'Artagnan shook Siroc's shoulders frantically, trying to rouse him. The color had drained from his face the moment he had entered the laboratory and seen his friend's unconscious form. The blonde's face was lined with black streaks. D'Artagnan's unbound hair fell forward as he shook him again.

Siroc opened his eyes and immediately started coughing. He shook his head from side to side as four hands pulled him to his feet, trying to clear his head. He looked around the hazy room. The windows were shattered and the rest of the room was filled with debris. In the middle of it all, the table rested in two pieces, broken right down the middle. He glanced at d'Artagnan and Ramon, who still held him tightly by the arms. Both men looked relieved. His eyes came forward and locked on the figure that stood fuming in front of him.

Duval stabbed his cane in Siroc's direction. "What is the meaning of this?" the captain yelled. His fear for the man in front of him had been replaced by relief then sheer anger as d'Artagnan and Ramon lifted him to his feet.

"I —" Siroc coughed. "I was testing something, sir." After making sure he could stand, he pulled his arms from d'Artagnan and Ramon. He ran his right hand through his messy, blonde hair, forcing it back out of his face. Shards of glass fell to the floor.

Duval stepped up, kicking some of the debris and bringing his face to the inventor's. "Next time you decide to TEST something, it better not blow up my garrison or I'll throw you in the Bastille and forget about you!" he yelled. The aging musketeer took a deep breath to calm himself. "Is that understood?"

Siroc nodded, trying to stifle another cough. Duval narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the ex-slave before he stormed out of what was left of the laboratory, mumbling something about it being to early for this kind of excitement.

The inventor watched Duval's retreating back shove past the crowd that had gathered at the door. He took a breath, as deep as he could, before he felt the sensation to cough again. He shoved his way through the debris that covered the lab floor and picked up a piece of one of the bowls that had been sitting on the table. He tossed the piece down and silently cursed himself. He had once again underestimated an invention. But, at the same time he couldn't help but feel intrigued. The liquid had been stronger than he had anticipated. '_Had the larger bowl been farther away, perhaps my laboratory wouldn't be in pieces now_,' he thought. '_But that is for another day, another test_.'

He sighed. Who was he fooling? His curious nature had almost gotten him killed, again. He kicked a piece of the bowl hard, sending it across the room and ran his hand through his hair again, pulling slightly in frustration.

"What exactly were you testing, mi compadre?" Ramon's voice drew Siroc back to the two musketeers that had remained in the room. The Spaniard's hair stuck out in every direction. His shirt hung freely, while d'Artagnan wore no shirt. They stood watching their friend, both men concerned.

"An explosive liquid," Siroc answered, as he knelt down and rummaged through the debris near the table, fishing for something in the mess. His hands found an old, worn, leather-bound book. He gently brushed it off before tucking it into the top of his pants and standing back up.

"Why would you make an explosive liquid?" d'Artagnan asked, slightly confused. His arms were crossed in front of him and his head tilted slightly.

"Well, I hadn't really thought of the applications yet," Siroc answered in an impatient tone. He turned around to face his friends. "It was just an idea," he stopped, pulling his leather apron off and draping it over the edge of one of the table pieces. "Which apparently worked," he added smugly. His lips pursed, forcing the edges of his mouth down into a frown.

"Sometimes I wonder what goes through your head, Siroc. You could have been killed," Ramon replied. He had a knack for stating the obvious.

But despite how badly his night's work had gone, Siroc wasn't in the mood to hear about something he was already well aware of. He had other reasons why he did the things he did. "Well I am still alive, Ramon. So please spare me the lecture," he snapped.

Both d'Artagnan and Ramon were taken back by Siroc's words. He rarely lost his patience and when he did, only God could save the person who had incurred Siroc's wrath. But the haggard, tired and frustrated look on younger man's face revealed that his impatience was more from lack of sleep and the current state of his laboratory than being truly offended at Ramon's words.

"Why don't you go get some sleep, Siroc? Ramon and I will start cleaning up in here," d'Artagnan suggested as he stepped forward and put his hand on Siroc's shoulder, squeezing gently. D'Artagnan raised one of the corners of his mouth in an attempt to convince the inventor that they could handle the mess. The blonde's eyes moved from d'Artagnan to Ramon, who had his arms crossed in front of him. He and d'Artagnan looked as disheveled as Siroc felt.

Siroc closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt as if he could sleep for an age. "Thank you," he finally said. "Wake me after a while?"

His two friends only nodded in reply. Siroc waded through the mess to the door. He didn't bother to shut it behind him as he usually did, a habit to 'protect' his sacred space. There wasn't much left in there to even qualify it as a laboratory anymore though, a thought that greatly saddened him. That room, his inventions, had been his escape from everything. The loss was frustrating.

As he shuffled down the hall to his room, he pulled the small book from the top of his pants and opened it, noting the singed edges. He flipped through a few pages before stopping. His eyes studied the sketch on the page. It had been five years since he had seen the girl in the sketch, since he had escaped from his former life and found freedom as a musketeer. He shuttered at the thought of his childhood.

He entered his room and shut the door. He sat down on the bed and pulled his boots off before flopping into a laying position. He set the book on the stand next to the bed and wished he could have done more for her, to save her from the life he had escaped from. He had given up hope long ago of ever seeing her again. The image in the book and his memories were all that remained, and in his carelessness, he had almost lost it. At least when he was at work, he could forget all the pain he had suffered early in life, a pain his friends could never understand. He silently cursed himself. One night's experiment had destroyed his sanctuary, his retreat.

Until it was restored, he would have to find another way to hide and forget.


	2. Chapter 2

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Two:  
Bad Dreams And Worried Friends**

He raced through the dense trees as the sound of his heart pounding echoed in his ears. Rain and hail beat him mercilessly, his bare feet sinking into the saturated earth. His side ached and his breaths came quick. Branches snapped and gouged him as he forced his way through the thick underbrush. He could feel the cuts they left behind, but the howl of dogs on the hunt kept him moving. They were getting closer. He stole a look over his shoulder and stretched out his hand.

A skinny blonde girl, just as skinny and bony as he was, struggled to keep up. Her long hair was plastered to her head. Her tattered skirt clung to her legs, drenched and weighing her down. She took his hand, holding tightly. He kept pulling her with him through every fall and stumble. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed. She knew the look. This time would be different. This time they'd escape.

His look was more for her benefit, masking the intense feeling of panic that tried to engulf him. The fear of capture ate at him, but he dared not let fear take him. He had to keep his head or they would be caught. He couldn't let her down. She was the one good thing in his life.

Despite the hounds of hell tearing at their heels, they kept going, ignoring their fatigue, the rain and the cold. The pair crawled up a steep hill, sinking into the mud and sliding back one step for every two they took. They kept pushing upward, determined to get to the higher ground. It was only a little farther, and the dogs and their master wouldn't be able to follow them. He reached the top first. Flopping on his stomach, he stretched his arms out toward the girl. He was covered head to toe in mud. She grabbed for his hands, but slid back as the soggy earth rushed down the side of the hill with the rain. Her eyes were narrow to shield them from the down pour, her face panic stricken. She threw herself onto her stomach, flailing her arms frantically as she reached for him again and this time she caught the tips of his fingers.

Their hearts stopped as they heard the shouts; their master had spotted them.

He pulled her up, but just as he could take her hand, she slid again and this time out of reach. His eyes went wide and he began to panic. No matter how she struggled, she kept sliding back down the hill. Tears formed in her eyes before streaking her muddy face. She looked down and saw the men and the hounds, laughing, cursing and waiting for their pray to return to them. She looked back up at him, and began to struggle again. She was crying so hard that her chin quivered. The more she struggled the quicker she slid. She screamed for him to help her, afraid. His arms couldn't stretch any farther and he began to scream her name as tears streamed his face.

He was losing her. He couldn't lose her, not her. She was his world. She smiled weakly. Her will to fight had left her. He could not hear her words over his own frantic yelling but he understood the movement of her lips as she told him to run. He shook his head, refusing to leave her. She told him to run again and then she let the water take her back down the hill.

He screamed for her over and over as he watched her slide back down, not able to believe that he had just lost her.

Jacqueline whistled heartily as she rode into the garrison. She dismounted her gray mare and stroked her neck gently before pulling the reins and leading her into the barn and into an open stall. She pulled off the saddle and blanket and threw it over the post before she grabbed the brush and gently combed her down. A strand of hair fell forward as she bent over, taking the horses hoof in her hand. Her whistling changed to a hum.

D'Artagnan watched Jacqueline. He had walked in on her once before bent over like that. He smiled, debating whether he should "compliment" her again. He spoke instead. "You're back early."

Jacqueline jumped and stopped humming as she quickly turned, glaring at d'Artagnan for startling her. "Must you sneak up on people?" she reprimanded.

D'Artagnan leaned his shoulder against one of the wooden beams and crossed his arms. "I thought you wouldn't be back until tonight." He raised an eyebrow. "Did you miss me?"

Jacqueline rolled her eyes and threw the brush at him. He tried to jump out of the way but the brush hit him in the stomach. He exhaled sharply on impact.

Her eyes locked on him as she walked past him, one corner of her mouth slightly upturned. D'Artagnan felt his stomach flutter as he recovered from her playful assault. Her head went forward again as she walked into the main room, pulling her gloves off.

D'Artagnan trailed just behind her. "We've had some excitement while you were away," he said as he caught up to her in the hall.

"Oh?" She turned her head slightly, catching a glimpse of the legend's son out of the corner of her eyes. She raised her eyebrows, waiting for his response.

D'Artagnan smiled again. She had left her femininity in the barn and was now doing her best man impression. Her impression never ceased to amuse him. "Siroc blew up the laboratory this morning," he finally said.

"What!" She stopped in her tracks, a look of horror on her face. "Why are you smiling? Is he all right?" She prepared herself for his response, slightly afraid that she would ever have to bury a dear friend.

"Yes. He's asleep," he said. Jacqueline let out her breath. The color returned to her cheeks. "Ramon and I just spent the last few hours cleaning up what's left of the laboratory which, believe me, isn't much."

Jacqueline shook her head and started walking again. "What was he doing?" she asked as she shoved the door to her room open, set her bag down on the bed and turned back toward d'Artagnan who had followed her in.

He closed the door partly and then shook his head and shrugged slightly. "He said something about explosive liquid. I can't begin to understand what he was doing." He looked around briefly, noting that even after several months at the garrison her room was still as stark as it had been the last time she had let him in. It barely looked lived in. The furnishings were the same as d'Artagnan's, but it was obvious that most of her belongings were in the bag she had dropped on the bed.

"Well that's not a surprise," she said sarcastically. The edges of her mouth curved up as she noted the look on his face. She couldn't help but start to laugh; her body shook lightly.

"Ha ha," he said, rolling his eyes and a little annoyed at her jab at his intelligence. He shook his head. _Not like you understand either_, he thought before returning to his earlier question. "So, why did you come back early?" he asked.

She turned back to the bag on the bed and started pulling her clothes out, draping them over the end of the bed. "I did what I needed to do. I saw no point in delaying my return." Her head tilted slightly to the side as she spoke.

"So you did miss me," he teased, ducking as she once again threw something at him. This time her socks hit the door, bouncing off and rolling a few feet before stopping.

"Will you get over yourself?" she hissed. She opened her mouth to continue her reprimand, but stopped. Her eyes fell on the door.

D'Artagnan had heard it too. He pulled the portal open and was out the opening, heading down the hall. Jacqueline followed close behind. He stopped in front of Siroc's room and knocked. "Siroc?" he called. He was about to knock again when he heard Siroc yell once more. D'Artagnan shoved the door open. He looked around expecting to see the blonde struggling with someone, but instead only saw his friend thrashing in his bed. His jaw dropped. He stood back for a moment, confused at what he had found. He closed his mouth and approached the bed, bending down to touch his shoulder.

Jacqueline stood back as d'Artagnan reached down to wake Siroc, unsure of what she should do. She felt helpless as she watched her friend struggle in his sleep, unable to move to aid him. Her friend's face was lined with black streaks except for trails down both cheeks where tears had fallen. As d'Artagnan touched his shoulder, he suddenly jumped back as Siroc's clenched fist swung out.

He felt the rush of air on his face. Siroc's fist had barely missed him. At first he felt shocked that the inventor had swung at him, but it quickly subsided into annoyance. He narrowed his eyes and not wanting to get any closer, he kicked the side of the bed. "Siroc!" he called. "Siroc!" he said again. Jacqueline noted d'Artagnan's irritation.

Siroc opened his eyes, breathing heavily. He sat up quickly, yelling, "Sancia!" His body shook. His hands and face felt cold. As he calmed himself, he felt two pairs of eyes on him. He looked over his right shoulder and saw d'Artagnan and Jacques standing next to the bed.

"Are you all right?" Jacques asked. She looked puzzled.

Siroc shook his head up and down. The dream had shaken him and he couldn't find the words to respond as he tried to clear his head. He brought his hand to his forehead and pressed his palm against it, rubbing slightly. He cringed when he saw the black smudge on his palm as he brought his hand back down, his mind returning to that morning's accident. He silently kicked himself for not fully considering the outcome of the experiment before actually conducting it. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, his shirt hung freely. He looked up at d'Artagnan, who appeared slightly upset.

"What?" Siroc asked, knowing quite well what he had said as he sat up. He hoped d'Artagnan wouldn't ask. He didn't want his friends to know about his past. He could barely bring himself to look at the likeness in the book on his bed stand without wanting to cry and the last thing he needed from anyone was pity.

"You almost hit me." His words came out slowly, emphasizing each one.

"What are you talking about, d'Artagnan?" Siroc asked, his voice hinting annoyance, as he grabbed one of his boots and pulled it on.

"You almost hit me!" he said again, a little faster and louder. Jacqueline stepped forward and touched d'Artagnan's arm lightly, attempting to calm him, before letting it fall back to her side. The look on her face told him to calm down.

Siroc made a noise that sounded something like a laugh. "Now, why would I do that, my friend?" Siroc pulled on his other boot and stood up, tucking in his shirt.

"You tell me!" D'Artagnan said through clenched teeth. He tilted his head sideways and crossed his arms.

Siroc shifted his weight and stared at his friend. He didn't want to get into it. He didn't want them to know about his past. He opened his mouth, but closed it quickly as Jacqueline started to speak.

"Leave him alone, d'Artagnan," she interjected. "I'm sure it wasn't intentional."

Siroc smiled, grateful that she had turned his attention away from him. "Welcome back, Jacques," he offered.

"Thanks," she said. The corners of her mouth curled up. "You might want to wash your face," she suggested. "You look like a child who's been playing with fire."

The smile faded from his face and he stared at her stoically before looking back at d'Artagnan. "You told him?"

D'Artagnan slapped Siroc on the back. "It would have been hard to hide," he answered before Jacqueline could speak.

"Hmm." The noise was more acknowledgement then question. "If you two will excuse me, I'd like to get cleaned up," Siroc said after a few moments.

Jacqueline nodded, respecting her friend's request. She grabbed d'Artagnan's arm and pulled him toward the door. The inventor ushered them out, slightly impatient, and shut the door. He leaned his back against the rough wood and slid down to the floor. His hands began to shake and he felt tears forming in his eyes.

_Why had I dreamed that?_ he wondered. It had been five years since that day. He had been only fifteen but looked much younger at the time from years of hard work and lack of food. He didn't want to remember that part of his life, how he had let her down and left her behind. He took several breaths, trying to bottle his emotions as he always did, but the guilt over his greatest failure still plagued him. He brought his knees up to his chest and rested his elbows on his knees with his hands on his forehead. He needed something to keep himself busy, but for the first time in years, the dreamer had no ideas, no projects, in which to hide.


	3. Chapter 3

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Three: A Boy Named Siroc**

It was a rare occasion that Jacqueline was not paired with d'Artagnan for patrol. She liked the change; his constant flirting was obnoxious. She smiled briefly at that thought. Sometimes she enjoyed the attention, but most of the time she fought the urge to knock him over the head with a heavy object. She enjoyed early morning patrol, with one exception. Ramon, who was her companion this time, was far too happy in the morning. He rambled on, rhyming whatever words popped into his head. Jacqueline winced.

"Ramon!" She said his name sharply. He closed his mouth and looked over his shoulder at his companion. He knew what was coming. "Do you have to do that this early?" She hated to dampen his spirits but she could only take so much, especially in the morning.

He shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot help it, Jacques. I have poetry in my soul," he said. His expression revealed his disappointment. His large brown puppy-dog eyes locked on her, pouting.

Jacqueline sighed. She hated that look, but enjoyed the peace more so she chose to ignore his attempt to have his way.

His shoulders sagged in defeat and he turned his gaze to the road ahead of them, occasionally ducking or shifting in his seat to avoid tree limbs that lined the left side of the road. The towering pines swallowed the morning sun, blocking its rays from reaching the path. But off in the distance, the golden light could be seen across the fields of tall grass that lined the right side of the road. The smell of pollen, the sound of the birds and the warming days indicated that spring had finally emerged from the cold, rainy depths of winter.

Jacqueline's mind wandered. She watched Ramon bob up and down in his seat with each stride of the horse, the bandana on his head rippling from the slight breeze. It dawned on her as she watched her friend how little she knew about him, about his past. She knew his poetic side, had seen his heart break at the loss of a woman he cared for (witch or not) and knew that he was loyal to a fault. He would stand beside his friends through the best and the worst.

Ramon wasn't the only one she knew little about. Her mind drifted to Siroc. She was astonished at how uncommonly patient he was. When he would get irritated he would just narrow his eyes and quietly usher the person to the door. He never mentioned the past, his family. His mind was always on the present and his inventions.

Jacqueline had been biting her tongue for days, not wanting to pry like only a woman would. But she had been concerned about him since she had returned. The word he spoke as he sat up in his bed echoed through her mind. '_Sancia?__ A name or place?'_ She had finally decided it was a name, although not a common name, but neither was Siroc. She bit her lip, debating whether she should ask Ramon. Her curiosity won out.

She cleared her throat. "Ramon?"

"Si?" he responded. His voice sounded a little disheartened.

"What do you know about Siroc?"

Ramon's chocolate eyes locked with hers. He scrunched his eyebrows down, narrowing his eyes, a little suspicious. "Why?" The word came out hesitantly.

Jacqueline took a quick breath, forcing it out rapidly. "Call it," she stopped, thinking for a moment. "Concern."

His eyes went forward again. "About what exactly, Jacques?"

She thought for a moment before she spoke again. "The other day, d'Artagnan and I woke Siroc up. He seemed to be dreaming." She paused. "When he sat up he said a name — well I think it's a name," she stopped, repositioning herself in the saddle. "I think it was Sancia."

"Ah," Ramon acknowledged, nodding. He seemed to perk up at the mention of the name like he knew what she was talking about. "I too have heard him say it, but only in his sleep."

Her eyebrows shot up and she sat up straight. _'Finally, some answers.'_ "Then you know who it is?"

"No." He shook his head from side to side and Jacqueline sunk back down, disappointed. "I did not ask. I have known Siroc since I came to the academy. He does not speak of his past and I have respected that."

Jacqueline made a growling noise, frustrated. "Then will you tell me what he was like when you first met him?"

The corners of Ramon's mouth curved upward. He had fond memories of his first days at the academy, but was also enjoying forcing Jacques into an endless stream of questions. He thought for a moment about how to answer the inquiry. Siroc, Ramon and d'Artagnan had been friends almost as long as he had been there. Siroc was just Siroc now. But, when he first arrived, there was a time that he didn't think that anyone could call the blonde a friend. The genius kept everyone at a distance. Ramon would start there.

"He was quiet, much more than he is now. D'Artagnan arrived at the academy not even a month before I did. From what he told me, Siroc was already there when he arrived. I do not know for how long though." Ramon stopped, clicking his tongue as he thought and then continued.

Ramon watched, from the table, as the boy known only as Siroc walk through the door of the garrison. D'Artagnan sat on top of the table next to him. They had been making plans for their evening off until they saw him with his head bent down and nose in a book. He was skinny, too skinny in Ramon's opinion, and his face was somewhere between childhood and manhood. The poet estimated he couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen, two or three years younger than he.

Siroc was a strange one. In the month since the Spaniard had arrived, he had heard Siroc speak two or three words. He only interacted with the other musketeers during morning practice and then was quickly off again doing whatever tasks the captain had charged him. During his free time, the strange blonde locked himself in a room that had once been used for storage.

From what Duval had told them, Siroc had started out working at the garrison doing odd jobs. The captain had asked him to join the musketeers after he had found himself in awe of the boy's intelligence and knack for inventing things. Siroc's inexperience with a sword was apparently only a minor problem to the garrison commander. Although Ramon had noticed that several of the cadets resented Duval's favoritism of the quiet, anti-social genius. But the Spaniard did not let their opinions influence him. The captain had seen something special in the young man and had asked for Ramon and d'Artagnan's assistance in bringing the boy out from under the rock where he hid.

Ramon had gladly accepted the challenge. Siroc had intrigued him from the day he had arrived with his quiet ways and his unshakable focus. He was unlike anyone the tall musketeer had met before. Ramon had always liked being around people and it was hard for him to understand why the blonde chose to hide out.

The Spaniard had tried on several occasions to speak to Siroc without any success. D'Artagnan too had been trying since he arrived several months earlier to get the genius to do something other than read a book, which was usually what he was doing when he was in the garrison's common areas. Siroc would just look up, consider him for a few moments, and then return to his book without saying a word.

Ramon felt d'Artagnan's hand smack him lightly on the arm. His eyes moved from the figure that was heading down the hall to his friend. The Frenchman's head jerked toward the younger man. Ramon lips curled and d'Artagnan raised his eyebrows quickly; the pair stood up. Now would be a good time to get better acquainted.

They walked far enough behind the tall blonde to avoid him noticing them and suppressed a laugh as they overheard him mutter something. They stopped briefly as he entered the laboratory. The click of the lock never came. Ramon rolled his wrist and gestured with his arm in a dramatic motion for d'Artagnan to go first. D'Artagnan walked past the slightly older musketeer, nodding his head equally dramatic in thanks. The pair stopped in front of the entrance, hesitating slightly. They had yet to see Siroc lose his temper, but what little they knew about him, there could always be a first. Ramon pushed on the barrier, the hinges squeaked loudly. He cringed but grabbed d'Artagnan's arm, pulling them both through the entry.

As they cleared the edge of the shelving, Ramon forced a smile on his face. The room had much more in it than they had expected, including a forge by the fireplace and shelves full of bits and pieces of Ramon could only guess what. In the middle of it all was a table where Siroc stood. Ramon smiled even larger, thinking, who could resist a smile? Apparently Siroc could.

The inventor stared at the two men who had invaded his space. His eyes narrowed, clearly telling them that he was not pleased. Siroc looked back down at his hands. He stood behind the table, wrapping two small pieces of wood together with a piece of string. Ramon could not see what was between the pieces.

"What are you doing?" Ramon asked as he walked over to the table and jumped up, sitting on the table top. D'Artagnan was close behind Ramon. D'Artagnan sat on the other side of Siroc. The pair had flanked him in order to get a better look at what the inventor was doing. Only Siroc was uncomfortable with their tabletop perch. Ramon and d'Artagnan sat, relaxed, as if they'd sat there a hundred times before.

"Nothing," Siroc said, without looking up. Ramon could feel his agitation, but he couldn't tell if the inventor was annoyed or just uncomfortable with the two men sitting so close to him.

D'Artagnan leaned back, putting his hands on the surface behind him. He smiled at the blonde before saying smartly, "Ramon and me, we have a bet going that the only words you know are no, nothing and yes, sir." He was trying to provoke a response, any response, out of the younger man.

Siroc looked up at the legend's son. His hands stopped wrapping the thin strand, and his eyes narrowed; his lips pursued. He couldn't believe d'Artagnan's arrogance, but then again, he was an aristocrat's son. "I assure you, I know more words than you could possibly fathom. Most of which I am sure you wouldn't begin to comprehend."

"Ha!" Ramon said loudly. "You're buying supper." He pointed his finger at d'Artagnan who grumbled slightly.

Siroc rolled his eyes and returned to his work. "I'm glad I could be of assistance. Now if you don't mind, I'm busy." Siroc set the thin bundle down on the table and reached for something across the work-space, pushing Ramon slightly out of the way.

The Spaniard leaped up at his movement. He watched the younger man for a moment before meeting d'Artagnan's eyes with his. D'Artagnan shrugged. They weren't accomplishing anything except to annoy Siroc. Ramon wasn't giving up. He was having too much fun watching the younger man work. Besides, they had gotten four sentences out of him in only a matter of minutes, which was more than anyone except Duval had managed. Ramon was curious what else Siroc would say once they got him started. "You still haven't told us what you're doing," he said.

His words were followed closely by d'Artagnan's, "What's in-between there?" He poked his finger at the pieces in Siroc's hand. The blonde flicked his hand at d'Artagnan's. The pair frustrated him. He just wanted to focus on what he was doing but answering wouldn't hurt. "Graphite," he responded irritably.

Ramon leaned against the table and looked from Siroc to d'Artagnan, silently questioning as to what Siroc was doing. He finally asked when d'Artagnan shook his head indicating that he had no ideas. "Why would you put graphite between two pieces of wood?"

Siroc stopped wrapping and brought his left hand up, showing them his fingers. They were covered in black smudges. "Because I'm tired of constantly having to wash my hands," he explained, shaking his head. He hated explaining himself.

"Why don't you just use a quill and ink?" d'Artagnan asked, thinking Siroc was definitely an original person. There wasn't anyone else like him.

Siroc stopped. D'Artagnan and Ramon both waited for him to yell or chastise them for continually interrupting him, but instead he smiled and his eyes seemed to light up. "A quill, that's not a bad idea." He walked over to the shelves and picked up a small wooden box, bringing it back to the table with him. As he opened the smooth lid, it became clear to Ramon and d'Artagnan that it was a quill box. Siroc pulled one out then shut the lid and set the box aside. He bent down and pulled a dagger from his boot, much to his companions' surprise, and cut the end of the quill before inserting a piece of graphite into the incision. He cut another piece of thread and wrapped it tightly around the end of the quill, starting with the top of the incision, tying it off when he finished. He smiled larger than Ramon had ever seen.

"Will that work?" d'Artagnan questioned, still perched on the table and intrigued at Siroc's invention.

Siroc shrugged before grabbing his notebook. The letters were perfect as he quickly wrote two lines. "Apparently it does," he said rather smugly. The edges of his mouth slowly returned to normal and he looked from Ramon to d'Artagnan. "If you two insist on being in here, you have to do something."

D'Artagnan lifted an eyebrow and brought his arms back up from where he was leaning and crossed them in front of his chest. "And, what would that be?" he asked.

The smile came back to Siroc's face. "Stay off my table." D'Artagnan immediately stood and Ramon stopped leaning.

The three considered each other for a moment. Both men were slightly relieved that they had finally gotten Siroc to speak to them. Ramon stretched out his arm, grasping Siroc's shoulder. He jumped slightly at the touch and Ramon's arm fell away. Siroc had a nervous look in his eyes.

Trying to ease the situation, Ramon spoke, "You should come to supper with us." Siroc didn't answer and started to shake his head no. Noticing that they were losing the ground they had just gained, he spoke once more, "D'Artagnan's paying." Ramon's expression was nothing but insistent.

"All right," Siroc finally gave in. He shifted his weight nervously. Ramon grabbed his shoulder again and this time, Siroc didn't jump. They had made progress.

As Ramon finished speaking, Jacqueline considered his words. There was a world of difference between the boy that Ramon described and the young man she knew. But still, with recent events, instead of being locked in the laboratory, he read more than usual and fought harder in practice. She couldn't help but feel that everything he did was a distraction from some greater pain. Jacqueline understood distractions and forgetting the past. She did that herself everyday.


	4. Chapter 4

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Four: Tainted**

Siroc and Ramon circled each other, their blades held tightly in their hands and their eyes locked. Siroc watched his opponent's every movement, blocking out the echoing clash of steel of the other musketeers who were practicing in the courtyard. He waited for the attack. The edges of Ramon's lips curved slightly, just before he lunged. Siroc quickly brought his blade up, blocking the blow and clashing his blade several times with Ramon's as he was forced back several steps. Siroc turned his body sideways as Ramon attempted to touch. Ramon's blade missed, throwing the poet off balance. Siroc knocked the outstretched blade upward. The Spaniard withdrew while the inventor circled the stationary figure. This time the blonde was the hunter.

As he moved, Siroc felt a drop of water hit his nose. The gray morning would turn into a gray and wet day. But for now, only a few scattered drops caressed his face and hair. The few musketeers who had been practicing around them rushed back inside the garrison and into the gymnasium to continue their practice. But Siroc kept hunting, ignoring their shouts of dismay over the few scattered drops. He was waiting for the right moment, the right opening. Ramon let his arm slip down slightly, lowering the blade with it. As Ramon's arm relaxed, Siroc knew he had found it.

Siroc moved quickly, attacking and cutting upward with his blade. The rapiers met with a sharp clang. The blonde's strokes came quick and hard, forcing Ramon back as the poet had just done to him. There was a strength to his blows that Ramon had never noticed before. The calmer man usually fought with no emotion, focusing on each move. But this time, his movements weren't calculated. Siroc struck as if he was trying to destroy something.

Ramon felt his back hit the wall as Siroc sent his blade flying across the courtyard. The loud noise as it crashed on the stone sent the birds that roosted on the rooftop and courtyard wall flying. Siroc's rapier touched Ramon's sternum gently before falling back to the inventor's side.

"Not bad, amigo. I think you're improving," Ramon complimented between breaths. The Spaniard was pleased at how well Siroc had done. The inventor could hold his own in a fight, but the emotion the younger man was drawing on lately added an edge to his fighting that Ramon had not seen before. During the time Ramon had known him, Siroc fenced only because it was required. His technique was flawless and had been for some time. But the older musketeer was certain that technique was only half of what an excellent fencer needed. Emotion was what would turn the tide in an even match, and Siroc was finally tapping emotion. Ramon's only concern was where the passion was coming from. He did not like to see his friend so aloof and frustrated. But, what could he do? Ramon walked over to where his blade had landed and picked it up. "Perhaps you should blow up the laboratory more often," he jested as he put it back in its sheath.

Siroc, however, was not amused. If looks could kill, the look on his face would have dropped Ramon where he stood. The inventor sheathed his blade and chose not to respond to his friend's remark. Instead, he turned his back to the Spaniard and started for the doors that lead into the common room.

It had been two weeks since the explosion, but those two weeks felt like a lifetime. Siroc had gradually begun to rebuild his sanctuary but found the slow process aggravating. Instead of actually trying experiments, he was limited to writing his ideas in a notebook as he had done when he was younger. Back then he had been beaten when his master had found the leather bound pages.

The book had started as his father's. He had hid it when his parents had been taken away by members of the church, and the book had been rescued when his master had found it. It had been almost burnt then but Sancia had rescued it from the hot flames while Siroc had been flogged; no one had been around to watch her. The memory made the scars on his back burn. He had almost died from the infection the lashes had caused, but Sancia had been there, taking abuse herself from their master for refusing to leave him.

He hated his memories.

Ramon caught up with his friend just before the doors, draping his arm around the shorter man, shaking Siroc several times. Ramon's face was lit with a smile, the same smile he used when trying to put someone at ease or lighten the mood. It was the same smile Siroc remembered from the evening d'Artagnan and Ramon had invaded his laboratory for the first time. The genius had grown accustom to the poet's sense of humor and need to make light of situations. But when it came to the place where Siroc felt at home, he couldn't help but be serious. His work kept his mind on the present.

"Breakfast is on me this morning," Ramon offered after Siroc didn't say anything. His friend was very out of spirits and Ramon felt helpless to remedy the situation. He had not seen him smile since the mishap and, more often then not, Ramon could crack the inventor's stoic face into giving at least a half smile. However, lately the Spaniard was having no success in shaking the ex-slave's impassive expression.

Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacques had rebuilt most of the shelving for him, but it was the supplies that Siroc had accumulated over the past few years which were the greatest loss. The inventor could not build if he had nothing to build with. But despite Ramon's lack of success, he kept trying as he had when they first met and as he would always do. Siroc was as dear to him as his brothers were. He would never see them or his family again; the fiasco that resulted in his banishment had sealed that. But not having a family to turn to made the relationships he had forged as a musketeer all that more dear to him.

The pair stopped just inside the door, watching d'Artagnan and Jacques lock blades. A bead of sweat slid down d'Artagnan's temple, his forehead glistened. Jacques' faced was flushed and both musketeers were breathing heavily. They had been fighting like this since before Ramon and Siroc had gone out into the courtyard to practice. Each stroke moved faster than the last and they both looked exhausted.

"Come you two! It's time for breakfast," Ramon yelled, waving the arm that wasn't around Siroc in one of his dramatic gestures.

Neither one took their eyes from each other but both answered, "We'll meet you there."

Ramon rolled his eyes. The pair never seemed to get tired of trying to best one another. Although by Ramon's count, Jacques was in the lead. He admired his newest friend even if he did find him a bit odd. Ramon steered Siroc back out into the courtyard. He grinned even larger and started laughing lightly as he heard d'Artagnan yell. Jacques had won again.

Siroc and Ramon sat at one of the back tables in the café. It was uncommonly busy for the morning and most of the clientele were not the usual customers that patronized Café Nouveau. The last time they had seen it this busy was when the highway man had been arrested, and Siroc had the distinct feeling that something was going on that the musketeers had yet to be apprised of.

Ramon sat turned slightly away from Siroc, sipping on coffee. He was already on his second cup, and they hadn't even been waiting for d'Artagnan and Jacques for five minutes. The Spaniard fidgeted endlessly with the leather strap that crossed his chest. Siroc shook his head and took a sip of his own coffee. _Why can't Ramon ever sit still?_ he wondered.

"What do you suppose this crowd is about?" the dark-haired musketeer asked. One of his eyebrows was raised and his lips were forced down in an extreme looking frown.

"I don't know, Ramon. You could try asking someone who has actually been here longer than five minutes," he suggested, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Ramon turned to look directly at Siroc. "You need to relax, amigo," he recommended. Siroc didn't respond, but took another sip. Ramon shook his head and made a noise, "Humph," before taking Siroc's advice to ask someone else.

The inventor watched him move across the room. Ramon stopped at the counter, asking for another coffee before engaging a couple. Siroc took another sip, scanning the room with his eyes and choked. The color drained from his face. Coming through the door was a man with hair as black as charcoal and skin paler than snow, dressed as a gentleman. The man's entire appearance was well groomed, perfect down to the buttons and lace. Siroc turned away immediately, bringing his hand up to his face and praying the man wouldn't recognize him. His eyes followed the figure through his partly spread fingers. His hands began to shake and his appetite drained away, replaced by nausea. Every horrible moment from his childhood rushed back into his mind as if it were happening again in that very second. He had to get out of the café, but the man stood near the door. If he attempted to leave, he would surely be spotted. Fear gripped him and he was two seconds away from panicking.

"Are you all right?" Siroc heard d'Artagnan ask as he and Jacques sat down across from him. Siroc could only nod his head yes. He was sure he looked as frightened as he felt, but he couldn't pull his eyes from the man who was now walking toward the counter and where Ramon stood.

"Siroc?" Jacqueline said. She tilted her head forward and to the side, her eyes trying to lock with his and full of concern. D'Artagnan stared puzzled, his eyes full of the same worry that was in Jacqueline's. They had never seen him so agitated.

Siroc cringed at the sound of his name. His eyes moved from the figure to Jacques then back to the man. He had to get out of there. He stood up quickly, keeping his head down and left the café as rapidly as his legs could carry him. He moved up the street, pushing past people before turning down an alley. He pressed his back against the cold stone and took several deep breaths, trying to steady his nerves. But the breaths weren't enough. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, and vomited.

When the blonde was finished, he stood holding his stomach. He pressed his back against the wall once more and leaned his head back, letting the stone cool his fevered body. His eyes closed. '_This can't be happening. He can't be here_,' he thought. If the pain of his childhood could be summed up into one expression, one man, that man from the café would have been it.

Siroc jumped and opened his eyes as he felt a hand touch his arm. Jacques' hand lingered on his sleeve. His features were soft and gentle, Siroc noted, but there was also fear and unease there. He could feel his body still shaking, intensifying at his friend's touch.

"Are you feeling all right?" Jacqueline asked, pulling out her handkerchief and offering it to Siroc.

He took it hesitantly and wiped his mouth. "Y-yes," he stammered. The word came out breathlessly. He pulled his eyes from her, looking at the ground where he had been sick. He couldn't look at Jacques. Siroc was too afraid that he would see through him. "I," he paused, swallowing. "I just don't feel well." The words weren't very convincing, not even to him. He silently kicked himself for letting his fear get the best of him. He was a thinker; he used his head. Siroc's flight from the café had been pure emotion, but even now he couldn't stop his body from quivering.

"You're going back to the garrison then?" she asked. A strand of her hair fell forward and she brushed it quickly back, forgetting her masculine façade as she let the strand gently lay behind her ear. She wanted to take his hand, hug him, anything to comfort him. But Jacques Leponte couldn't make such a gesture without revealing her secret. She could read his distress though and it hurt her heart to see such a dear friend with so much fear in his eyes. Now was not the time for her to ask questions; she would receive no answer.

"Yes. Will you let Duval know that I'm not feeling well?" he asked. His eyes came back up to hers.

"Of course," she spoke, her voice slightly higher than she usually allowed around other musketeers. She squeezed his arm, where her hand still rested. She didn't care if he saw through her guise at that moment. Jacqueline only wanted to comfort him the best she knew how. He nodded his head and thanked her silently before forcing his shaking legs to carry him back to the garrison.

As Jacqueline made her way back to the café, she didn't regret her decision to follow her friend. D'Artagnan had grabbed her arm and told her not to go, reminding her that only a woman would follow. He was just as concerned about Siroc, but like any man, conceded that it was none of his business. She, however, could not fight what she was.

Jacqueline walked back into the café, shoving past the crowd and back to the table where d'Artagnan and Ramon sat in silence. They both looked unnerved about what had just happened with Siroc. Ramon stared into his coffee, deep in thought.

"Well," d'Artagnan asked as Jacqueline sat back down.

"He's fine. He's just not feeling well," she told them, trying to convince them as Siroc had tried to convince her. She had seen through Siroc's lie but didn't dare call him on it. Someone or something in the room had spooked him out of his wits. Jacqueline scanned the room briefly, wondering who or what. She turned back around. D'Artagnan and Ramon were watching her. The look on their faces indicated that they didn't believe what she said but they too didn't press the issue. "So, did you find out what's going on?" she asked, returning her attention back to the crowd.

"Si," Ramon said. He sighed. "They're holding a slave auction in two days." He held out a flyer to Jacqueline. "Of all the years I have lived in Paris, I have never seen an auction. I was hoping I wouldn't have to," Ramon answered. He looked a little disgusted at his findings, as did d'Artagnan.

"And everyone is here to buy slaves?" Jacqueline asked as she crumpled the flyer and threw it across the room, just barely missing several patrons. The new customers glared darkly at the three musketeers.

"Some are here to sell," Ramon answered. He sighed once more and shook his head. His usual vibrant, happy face, was now stoic, except for his mouth, which was curved down slightly.

The three watched the crowd in silence for a few minutes. They had yet to eat breakfast but all had lost their appetites. Despite the fact that slavery was legal, the musketeers found it a horrible and inhuman practice and could not help but feel that their favorite café had just been irreversibly tainted by the clientele that chatted endlessly around them.


	5. Chapter 5

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Five: The Notebook**

A cloaked figure watched the tall, thin musketeer emerge from the alley and walk slowly up the street. He was followed by another musketeer, smaller than the blonde, who shuffled his feet across the stone streets, looking over his shoulder at his friend as the brunette walked back to the café. The features of the brunette's overly feminine face were filled with worry.

The figure stood next to a carriage trimmed in gold. Its appearance was overstated, screaming the status of its owner. She lowered the hood to get a better look and revealed her own blonde curly locks, which were tied back at the sides. The hair that remained down framed her face and cascaded across her shoulders and back. Her dress and attire suggested that she was a lady, the wife of a wealthy land owner or baron. But she knew the truth of what she was, a slave in fancy clothes, subject to the whim of the man she called "Master."

Siroc had bumped into her as he half-ran from the café. Her heart had almost stopped, her breath catching as she saw his face. She'd know his face anywhere. Time had only matured the gentle features. She still saw the boy she once knew in the man that had rushed past her.

She knew why he fled. She would do the same if she could. The tyrant who owned her, had owned him, had stopped at the café to mingle with some of the society who had come for the auction. He would no doubt question people, searching for prospective buyers for the four slaves that he had brought with him to sell. Alaina, Ciel, Fantine and Sinjon would be auctioned like animals. She had known them all for many years. Ciel and Sinjon had been in her master's home since before she and Siroc had arrived. The affair saddened her. They, her fellow slaves, were her family. Each one had been there for her when she needed comfort and companionship. They couldn't take Siroc's place, but they had eased the pain of not having him around. Sancia wept for them all, but only in private. She would never let anyone see her pain.

The glimpse of Siroc, though it was brief, was enough to bring joy back to her heart. He had made it; he was a musketeer. She had sacrificed, remained a slave to see him free. She had not felt such happiness from a moment since they had been children, before they were slaves. But as her thoughts drifted back to herself and her life, she wondered what he would think of her now. She had done things to survive the best she knew how and always felt as if she had sold her soul to Satan. But in the midst of an impending auction, in the midst of losing the people she called family, she had found something greater, someone she cherished more. She had found her brother.

Siroc had always been her protector, her confidante and her best friend. He had lied for her, taken beatings for her and been there when she despaired and longed for the warm hugs of their mother and father. The last five years had been lonely without him. But when she felt despair creep back into her soul, she would think of him free, alive, happy. She wanted nothing more than to shout to him as his retreating back turned a corner. But she would not call. She could not allow herself to draw attention to him or he would be sold on the block with the others or even worse, he would be beaten and killed. She would not take his freedom from him just to let him know that she still lived and missed him dearly.

Sancia lifted the hood of her cloak back up over her head. In time, they would sit and talk and be as they used to be, brother and sister against the world.

When Siroc returned to the garrison, he went straight for the laboratory, shut the door behind him and locked it. His choice of location was more out of habit than clear thinking. He looked around the empty room and a heavy weight filled his heart. The room had not been this clean since Duval had given it to him as his work space. The dust that had once lined the shelves was gone, and the cobwebs had disappeared from the dark corners. The floorboards creaked eerily, a noise usually silenced by his own activity. All of his books and notebooks were either destroyed or badly damaged. The books that remained were stacked in a corner by the shelves.

His body still trembled and he still felt sick. His hand fidgeted with the leather strap across his chest, much as Ramon had earlier, annoying him to no end. But now he needed something to do, anything to do to focus his mind. He pulled out the leather book that he carried tucked in the top of his pants, hidden under his tunic. He stared at the worn edges that were coming apart. The plain, black cover had faded to a sickly brown at the top left corner. The edges of the pages were yellow, brown and black from their close call with the fire, and the spine was broken and creased. After years of use and abuse, the small collection flexed freely when bent. One wrong pull of the bind's stitching and the book would have come apart in his hands.

He wanted to run as far from Paris as he could, away from his former master, away from the knowledge that he had left his sister behind and back to a time when his life made sense. The only calming thought he could find in seeing the man again is that if his former master had seen Siroc, he would already be enslaved again.

He paced back and forth through the empty room before throwing the book, feeling frustrated, afraid, confused and lost at the same time. It smacked the wall and hit the floor with a thud. His life was full of so much pain and he could not let go. He'd never be able to let it go, but what could he do, but keep on running?

Siroc walked over to the far side of the room and sat down under the newly restored but closed window that opened into the common room. He pressed his lower back against the wall with his legs extended in front of him. He looked at the floor between his partly spread legs and then brought his eyes up to look around the barren room. He had a decision to make. His emotions were screaming for him to flee. His heart was telling him to stay. His mind was racing and he could not think about the present. All he could think about was the last time the Marcellus family had been all together, before he knew the sting of the whip and called that man, "Master."

"Stop it, Sancia!" Sirocco looked over his shoulder at his sister, annoyed that she kept bumping him as he tried to read over his father's shoulder. It was rare that Sirocco yelled at his sister in such a manner. The pair did everything together, but sometimes Sancia's fidgety nature got the best of him.

Her hazel eyes narrowed and she glared, crossing her arms. "I want to see too, Sirocco!"

"Alright you two, that's enough." Both pairs of eyes look toward their father as he straightened his back and closed the leather-bound volume that was Donatien Marcellus' personal notebook. The pages were part journal and sketch book, and contained some of his ideas concerning the realm of science. Its black cover was flawless and undamaged. The only hint the book was ever used was the crease that ran the length of the spine and the pages' contents.

Donatien sighed as he looked from one twin to the next. The sun had long since set and he knew his children should have been in bed hours ago. But, Donatien enjoyed having them around. He picked up his son and set him next to his sister. "It's time for bed," he told them, a stern look on his face. Both children frowned, Sirocco because he wanted to read more of his father's notebook, Sancia because she hated bed time.

The children took after their mother in looks, light-haired, fair-skinned and golden-eyed. Raissa Marcellus was a beautiful woman and Sancia would look just like her when she became a woman. Sirocco had his mother's coloring and eyes, but looked like Donatien in the face. Donatien's hair, in contrast, was a dark, chocolate brown and his eyes were a piercing green. He was also a smart man, educated in science, philosophy, theology and numerous other 'ologies and able to speak several languages and read many more. Both children took after him in that respect. However, it was his Sirocco that Donatien believed would surpass him. The boy's keen mind never stopped questioning the world around him and his patience was uncanny for an eight-year-old.

Sancia, on the other hand, hated sitting still. She loved the ideas, the things her father taught her, but her flighty nature made it impossible for her to focus for long. Donatien would often catch her writing poetry instead of studying her lessons. But, regardless of her lack of concentration, Donatien could always find something to fascinate her. It was just a matter of presenting an idea in a more dramatic way than he had to Sirocco. He had great hopes for them both.

Sirocco took Sancia's hand in his as Donatien ushered them out of his study and up the stairs. If they had to go to bed, they would face it together, the same way they faced everything. Raissa stood at the top of the staircase, a smile on her face. "Come, children, to your rooms," she said as she knelt down to their eye level, taking their free hands in hers and forcing them to let go of each other. She stopped in front of the door to Sirocco's room and let go of his hand. Donatien picked up his son and carried him through the open entrance.

Sancia's voice followed them in, "Good night, Papa. Good night, Sirocco." Her voice was light and she spoke as if she had no cares in the world.

"Good night, Sancia," Sirocco said, waving to his sister. He could see the small figure disappear in front of his mother and into Sancia's room, which was across the hall. His father carried him over to his bed and set him down on it. Sirocco stood on the bed, looking at his father, his eyes slightly narrow and his forehead wrinkled.

The edges of Donatien's lips curled. He knew every one of his son's expressions, but this one was definitely his favorite. "What is wrong, Sirocco?" Donatien put his hands on his son's shoulders.

"I wanted to finish reading, Father," he said, his face relaxing slightly as he looked down at the floor.

Donatien squeezed his shoulders gently, pushing down slightly, urging Sirocco to sit on the bed. He couldn't help but give in when his little boy gave him that look. "I will go get the book and you can finish reading," Donatien said. Sirocco looked at his father, a smile on his face. "But," Donatien added, pulling his hand away from one of Sirocco's shoulders and shaking his finger gently. "But, if I let you read more tonight, you must practice your sword tomorrow. It pleases me that you enjoy reading, Sirocco, but learning to fence is also a valuable skill." Donatien, with all of his education, was also a skilled fighter and fencing was a skill he wanted both of his children to know for their own protection. He would not always be there to protect them. Sirocco, despite Donatien's insistence, always found a way to finagle his way out of fencing and into the library.

Sirocco shook his head up and down excitedly. "Yes, Father."

Donatien laughed. Raissa would not be happy if she knew the deals he often made with their son, bartering a father's desire for a son's. "Get ready for bed. I will go back down and get the book.

Sirocco jumped up from the bed as his father left the room. He grabbed his shirt, pulling the bottom out from the top of his pants and throwing it off over his head. He kicked his shoes off quickly before grabbing his night shirt. As he hastily pulled the long shirt over his head, he missed the hole for his head and instead caught the arm sleeve hole. His rapid movement stopped as he struggled to find the correct hole. When he finally had his night shirt on, he roughly pulled off his pants before turning back the sheet and blankets and climbing into bed, covering himself up.

Donatien pushed the door open slowly, sticking his head in. A large smile crossed his face as he slipped back through the opening and noted his son's clothes scattered about the room. He paused for a moment before shutting the door, listening to his wife's voice singing to Sancia across the hall. This day had been a good day for the Marcellus family. The smile left his face. He only hoped it would last.

He shut the door and crossed the room to his son, who waited patiently with a large grin on his face. He held out the book and Sirocco's small hands took it from him. "Now, you have to promise to keep that book safe, Sirocco," Donatien said.

"Oh, yes, Father. I won't let anything happen to it," Sirocco assured his father.

Donatien touched the left side of Sirocco's head, brushing his shaggy hair back before sitting on the bed. The look on his face was very serious. "Sirocco, of all my books this one is the most important. Always keep it safe," Donatien insisted.

"Yes, Father. I will," he assured his father again. Sirocco didn't understand his father's insistence but he would do as he was told.

Donatien stood up, leaning forward and kissing his son on the forehead. "I love you, my son. Good night," he said before turning to leave.

Sirocco looked up at his father's retreating back, happiness filled him. Little did Sirocco know, but this would be the last time he would see his father alive.


	6. Chapter 6

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Six: Her Own Way**

Maurice Vesey, a man of wealth and power, barely paid heed to the man who had opened the carriage door for him. His nose was stuck firmly in the air as he surveyed his surroundings. The palace was majestic and beautiful in its own right, but Vesey still preferred the grandeur of his estate just outside of Lyon.

A strand of his black hair fell forward as he turned his head to look at the woman stepping out of his carriage. He did not offer her a hand; she wasn't worth one. She had her uses and there was no doubt that woman had been the greatest purchase he had ever made. He smiled inwardly at the thought. When she was a child, there were moments he had wished to flog her just to knock his spirited slave down a peg or two. But punishing the boy, her brother, had been far more effective in shutting the impudent thing up. The fact that her brother had always protected her made it even more satisfying. But in the years since the boy's escape, he had found other ways to tame her.

Sancia had become a fine looking woman and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to parade her around as a show piece, dressed as a lady. She had been essential for obtaining delicate information from several rivals. Although to his credit, he had managed to keep the sensitive information from her and the only time she had asked about what she had obtained, he had beaten her for it. This sweet, angelic looking woman had been the key player in the downfall of several wealthy landowners. Yes, she was his greatest prize and he'd be damned before he ever let her go.

His eyes turned forward again as he proceeded through the palace entrance with his slave a few steps behind. He was greeted by another servant who bowed low as Vesey approached. Vesey stopped, irritated for no reason in general but simply because the haughty man could be in whatever state he wished. He eyed the servant severely, causing the bowing man to look a little unnerved. "I am here to see Cardinal Mazarin. Please tell him Monsieur Maurice Vesey is here," he ordered, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion as he spoke.

"Yes, sir," the servant squeaked, bowing quickly before rushing off on his task.

Vesey and Sancia waited only a few minutes before a man dressed in a red tunic approached the pair. Sancia was immediately repulsed by the guard. His hair was slicked back and he carried himself with a superior air like her master did. "Monsieur Vesey, I am Bernard, captain of the Cardinal's guard. If you will follow me, the Cardinal is expecting you."

The pair followed Bernard through a corridor to a hall. He stopped at the start of the passageway and gestured toward the open door at the end. "Here we are," Bernard announced, still standing at the end as Vesey and Sancia passed him.

Sancia eyed him as they passed. Her face revealed nothing of the repulsion she had initially felt toward the taller version of her master. She fought to keep her stoic expression as the edges of his lips curved upward and she saw his eyes dart from her face down and then back up again. She hated it when men looked at her like that. She may be a slave, but she was no man's prize horse. Although letting her master think that she was 'his' didn't hurt things. She knew how to persuade her master into doing something and still make him think it was his idea. She brought her eyes forward and stopped suddenly as her master turned around.

"Wait here. I won't be long," he ordered, before walking the rest of the way down the hall and knocking on the door's frame. "Cardinal Mazarin, so good to see you again," her master greeted.

The voice that followed sent chills down Sancia's spine. "Vesey, my old friend, how long has it been?" She knew the voice as surely as she knew her own and she felt her heart begin to pound. The sinister voice had haunted her since she was a child. It was the voice she had heard from a damp cell when she was eight years old. She closed her eyes and could picture that night even know. She had sat on the floor in a dark corner crying. Her brother's unconscious form had lain next to her, his head in her lap and his hair matted with blood. She had stroked his hair, praying he would wake up and she wouldn't be alone anymore. Siroc had awoken just in time for them to both hear the voice order her parents' execution and condemn them to a life of slavery.

Sancia clutched her hands together in front of her, trying to stop the shaking that had gripped her body. She could feel Bernard's eyes on her. He had not moved from the end of the hall yet and was obviously noting her discomfort. She turned her head to look over her right shoulder, her eyes narrowed in a glare. She wouldn't dare give anyone that look in front of her master, but her master wasn't watching her. When he wasn't around, she did what she pleased. Even after twelve years as a slave, the strong-willed woman still had her pride and not even this red-jacket ass was going to take it from her with his penetrating gaze. As she met his eyes, he smiled at her again before bowing with his head and walking away. Once she was alone, Sancia took a deep breath and turned her mind back to the conversation coming from the cracked door.

"I would prefer your guard, Cardinal," Vesey insisted.

"Come now, Vesey, the king's musketeers are charged with keeping order," the Cardinal said, his voice only borderline polite and verging on irritancy. "Besides, I know just the four that would be perfect for a little guard duty and it will keep them out of my hair," Mazarin said bitterly. His voice clearly indicated that he didn't care for the musketeers, especially the four he was discussing.

"I do not like this, your Eminence. The last time I had a meeting with a musketeer…" Vesey whined.

The Cardinal cut him off. "Now, now, that is ancient history. It's been twelve years, my friend and nothing has come out of it." His tone was condescending.

Sancia heard her master make a low growling noise. "Yes, but the documents were never recovered and — well, you know what happened in order to 'rid' us of the problem."

The Cardinal laughed. "Yes, I do, and the last time I checked, you got two slaves out of it." Sancia choked at the Cardinal's words. She had a very sickening feeling that the Cardinal's statement referred to her.

Her master and the Cardinal came to the door; the Cardinal's arm was around his shoulders. "I will arrange for the king to assign the musketeers to the auction and for you to meet with Captain Duval tomorrow morning. That way you can impose on him how 'important' the assignment is. Will that do?"

"I suppose," Vesey said coldly, shaking his head. He was scowling and clearly displeased with Mazarin's lack of assistance. "But it does not change my feeling on the matter."

"Come, Vesey, you worry far too much. Good day, sir," the Cardinal said, closing the door behind the slave's master. Sancia was sure the forced smile on Mazarin's face was gone as soon as he shut the door.

Vesey didn't say a word as he passed Sancia but she fell one step behind her master as she always did. But this time, the hatred she felt toward her master was intensified. What had the Cardinal meant? Had Vesey been involved with her parents' death somehow? Sancia quickly dismissed the last thought. He had mentioned a run in with a musketeer and her father hadn't been a musketeer, at least not that she was aware of.

Her master was far from happy about this meeting. Sancia had noted the look on his face as he left Mazarin's office, and the anxiety she had felt when hearing the Cardinal's voice had returned. They were involving the musketeers and Vesey would be at their garrison in the morning. She had to find some way to get away this evening. She had to make sure her beloved brother wasn't discovered.

Sancia stood at the entrance of the alley she had seen her brother come out of that morning. She pulled her now drenched cloak tighter around her. She watched the café door, waiting for a man, a musketeer. She had recognized the solider from that morning and had decided that he was her chance to get to her brother. She couldn't follow him in though and risk being seen by any of her master's business associates. Sancia would be in for it if she was discovered, but she couldn't just rush into the garrison and ask for her brother either. So many things were going through her mind, one of which was whether he still went by his real name or had chosen another. The thought of him being discovered scared her to death, but if she didn't see him, speak to him, Vesey would surely see him in the morning. Sancia's teeth started chattering loudly. She clenched her jaw trying to silence the noise. _How much longer?_ she thought. Her question was answered as the musketeer walked out of the café.

Jacqueline grumbled as she pulled the hood of her cloak up. She hated the rain and to make her day complete, she had eaten dinner alone after taking Siroc's patrol. She didn't mind covering for her friend but the captain had paired her with Pierre, with the idea that all of the cadets needed to work with others. She rolled her eyes at the thought. Pierre was nice enough but he never stopped talking and exaggerating his 'conquests.' _Men_, she thought with disgust.

Siroc, on the other hand, she was still concerned about. She had checked on him before she left on patrol, but he hadn't been in his room and the door to his laboratory was locked. Ramon complained frequently about her locking the door to her room, but that was 'her' room. Siroc never locked the laboratory, even when he was working on something that he didn't wish to share with anyone. But, then again, Ramon had told her that he used to lock himself in there all the time. The thought made her worry more.

Jacqueline shivered. The rain had made the night air colder than usual for this time of the year. She could see her breath as she exhaled. As she turned the corner on to the street the garrison was on, Jacqueline's attention moved outward. She could hear the footfalls behind her and they were moving faster. Her right hand went to the hilt of her blade while her left moved up to the tie that held her cloak together at her throat. She felt the hand grab her arm and in a heartbeat, her cloak was off and her sword drawn; the blade pressed against the throat of a woman.

Jacqueline immediately lowered her weapon, shocked to have her assailant be a female. She was getting to be paranoid. "Milady, my deepest apologizes. I didn't realize you were," Jacqueline paused, feeling a bit awkward. "Well, that you were a lady."

The hooded figure didn't say a word. She knelt down, picking up Jacqueline's cloak and holding it out to her. She looked as if she were freezing. Even in the dark, Jacqueline could see that her lips were a bright shade of red and her checks were flushed from the cold. Jacqueline's hand brushed hers as she took the cloak with her free hand. The woman's fingers were like ice.

"You are a musketeer," the woman said. Her words were more of a statement than a question. Her cloak was drenched and the dress she wore was soaked through. She looked like a drowned rat.

"Yes," Jacqueline answered, a little confused at whether it was a statement. She sheathed her blade and threw the saturated cloth back over her shoulders. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.

"You know the blonde musketeer? About this tall." She gestured with her hand. "And very smart?"

"Yes, Siroc, what about him?" Jacqueline said cautiously. In the time that Jacqueline had been at the garrison, she had yet to see Siroc with an admirer. He did venture out occasionally with his friends. Although, some subtle comments made Jacqueline think that the quiet musketeer did enjoy the companionship of a woman, at least occasionally. However, Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline were all in agreement that he needed to get out more.

"Siroc." The woman seemed to consider the name for a minute. "Can you take me to him?"

"Well, he's in the garrison. He's been ill, but you're welcome to come with me. I'm sure if he's awake it shouldn't be an inconvenience," Jacqueline replied. There was something strange about this woman, but familiar at the same time. Jacqueline couldn't quite place it. But maybe a friendly visit from an admirer would cheer Siroc up. It couldn't hurt.

Jacqueline opened the door to the garrison, holding it open for the soaked woman. The blonde had pulled the hood from her head as they came through the stable. Her once curled hair hung limply from the combs in her hair and frizzed slightly.

"This way," Jacqueline gestured toward the laboratory. She assumed that if Siroc were up, he'd be in his sanctuary trying to resurrect it. As they approached the door, Jacqueline knew she had assumed correctly.

Siroc stood with his back to d'Artagnan and Ramon, wiping off his books before placing them on the shelves. His friends were annoying him. He was still shaky from seeing his former master that morning. But after a lot of thinking and some wine, he had calmed down enough to put some of the pieces of his laboratory back together. He still hadn't decided what he was going to do. For now, he'd keep his mind busy by fixing the laboratory, fencing, patrolling and whatever else he could think of. He hoped that his former master would come and go without incident. He had told himself that Vesey was only here on business and business trips ended sooner or later. Ramon's words cut into his thoughts.

"I'm not sure I would call this a table anymore, mi amigo. It looks like a spider to me, eight legs and all." Ramon circled the table in the middle of the room. Siroc had 'temporarily' fixed it so that he would have a place to work. But, he knew that his patch wasn't permanent. The table could only hold about half the weight it had. Then again, it was only half the table it used to be. Siroc smiled inwardly at the thought, but he scowled over his shoulder at Ramon who looked like a vulture on the hunt, eyeing the table as if it were his prey.

D'Artagnan sat on the 'spider', as he usually did without thinking. Siroc's simple request that he had made years ago apparently had gone in one ear and out the other. The blonde silently hoped it would collapse out from under him. He could use a good laugh. "Why don't you just buy another table, Siroc?" d'Artagnan asked as he kicked his legs back and forth like a fidgety child.

"Because I spent all of my money replacing the windows," Siroc replied irritably as he picked up another book from the pile on the floor and brushed it off. He flipped through the pages, stopping to read part of one, before closing it with a thud and placing it on the shelf next to the others.

"Siroc?" The inventor rolled his eyes when he heard Jacques' voice. The last thing he wanted was another person bothering him but at least it was only Jacques. He was at least respectful when the genius wanted privacy. Siroc picked up another book and turned around. Ramon and d'Artagnan were already facing their friend and all eyes were on Jacques and the solemn figure that stood behind him, dripping water on the floor.

Siroc's breath caught in his throat and he dropped the book. The heavy volume hit the top of his boot before smacking the floor with a loud thump. He didn't move, not even to react to the book, just stared.


	7. Chapter 7

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Seven: Two Parts of a Whole**

Siroc's entire body started to shake. He had to be dreaming because only in his dreams did he ever see her face. But it was not the same face that haunted his memories. The face before him was that of a woman, youthful but mature. She was the spitting image of their mother. The gown she wore, it was far finer than the ones she wore the last time he had seen her. The solid green, silk dress, accented by a soft yellow trim, looked more like something he would see Queen Anne in than his twin. In fact, they had been children the last time he had seen her in anything so elegant.

He bit is lip and could feel his face heat as he fought the lump in his throat.

Sancia's hand flew to her mouth as she let out a gasp at the sight of her brother. She hid her emotions well, but as her eyes locked with his she could feel the tears forming. She held her breath as if the act would stop time, afraid to breathe and lose the moment. She had dreamed of this day for years and had been in complete shock when she had seen him that morning. Now she wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him if only to make sure he was real. Tears of joy careened down her checks. As she felt their warmth trace the cold of her cheeks, her patience gave out. She would wait no longer to do what she had wanted for so long.

As she moved, Siroc rushed forward as well, meeting her half way. She threw her arms around his neck as he wrapped his arms around her; one hand touched the back of her head. He held her so tightly that the shorter twin's feet left the ground. Both buried their faces in each others' shoulders. He felt the cold seep through his shirt as he held her closely. Normally, someone dripping water or disturbing the natural order of how he kept his lab would irritate him beyond belief. But Sancia could do no wrong and he would gladly take the wet mess, the wet shirt, or any other chaos she brought with her. He had longed for one more conversation, one more hug, and even one more stinging remark from her quick wit. He would take the bad with the good because she was precious to him. No fear or doubt existed when this pair was together.

Sancia didn't try to stop the tears that soaked her brother's shoulder. Her body quivered from her muffled sobbing. Only Siroc could hear the quick breaths that accompanied her tears. Normally she would be appalled at such emotional display, especially with three complete strangers watching her. She had grown accustom to grieving in silence, a habit so engrained that even now she could not break it. She was, at times, as serious as her brother, but he was the one person she could be free with. For the first time in years, she just let go of all the pain and hurt and took comfort in his arms and let bliss overwhelm her. She didn't ever want him to let her go. Sancia felt Siroc's body shaking and she knew that she wasn't the only one who felt the bitterness and heartache from being separated.

Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline weren't quite sure what to make of the sight in front of them. Ramon and d'Artagnan stared at the pair, their mouths gaped open and they looked completely dumbfounded. Siroc never displayed much emotion and here he was, holding a woman tightly and visibly shaking. Jacqueline's puzzlement was not from shock. She had, after all, had a feeling about this woman. Only Jacqueline had caught the tears rolling down Siroc's cheeks as the pair merged into one form. She questioned mentally who this woman was that could have such an emotional effect on her serious friend. The intensity of their elation was almost tangible.

Ramon cleared his throat. In one moment he had seen Siroc show more emotion than he had over the past five years. It was a surprising display, but Ramon welcomed it. Siroc needed someone to help him unwind, and this pretty woman was apparently capable of making Siroc relax. It was about time his young friend had someone to draw him out of his melancholy.

The pair had still not let go of each other and all three musketeers had started to become a little uncomfortable. When the pair didn't separate, Ramon and d'Artagnan eyed Jacqueline, silently asking what was going on. Jacqueline shrugged and shook her head. She was as confused as they were but she found the sight bitter-sweet regardless of how uncomfortable it was now making her. She moved around the pair, not taking her eyes off them, and stood next to Ramon, who had his arms crossed in front of him, eyebrows raised. They had to break this up if only to end their own discomfort. This time, all three cleared their throats, hoping to get the pair to release each other.

Siroc could hear his friends' not so subtle reminders that they were in the room. He released his hold slightly, letting Sancia's feet touch the floor, and pulled away enough to look at her face. Her face was red, eyes puffy from crying. He knew his face must look just as red as Sancia's, but it didn't matter to him. The edges of his mouth curled up slightly. It had been years since he felt so much happiness. She returned his smile with one of her own. And as the pair stared at each other, the edges of their mouths curved farther.

"Uh, Siroc?" d'Artagnan said, smirking. One of his eyebrows was a raised and he had stopped kicking his legs about the time the blonde pair meshed. "You want to introduce us to your lady friend?"

The expression on Siroc's face changed to a look of horror as d'Artagnan finished his words. It was clear to Sancia that the others didn't have a clue as to who she was, which was a little saddening, but the look on Siroc's face was priceless. She started laughing. "Lady friend?" Sancia teased her brother as she pulled away from him, but slid her hand down to take his left hand in hers. She squeezed it almost as tightly as they had held each other. The gesture inspired additional looks of curiosity from the musketeers.

Siroc opened his mouth to say something, but failed to actually articulate any words. It had never occurred to him that his friends would think of her as 'his lady.' Siroc and Sancia had been inseparable until he had escaped, and no one had ever confused his sister as a lover. The thought was a little flabbergasting and the seemingly knowing looks they were giving him made it even harder to explain the situation. Once these three had something in their heads, it was hard to convince them otherwise.

On top of their obvious misinterpretation of the pair's affection for each other, she was also a part of his past, which he preferred not to share even with his closest friends. Ramon and d'Artagnan were the sons of aristocrats; they would never understand what it was like to be a slave. And his friendship with Jacques was just too new to feel comfortable revealing much of anything to him. But here Sancia stood, something he had hoped for daily, and he didn't know what to say.

Sancia rolled her eyes. As the instigator of much of the playful torment that had befallen Siroc in their young lives, Sancia couldn't help but take the opportunity to continue her teasing. "Come, Siroc," Sancia started, saying his name flippantly. "Introduce me before I start to wonder if you've forgotten how to be a gentleman since the last time we met."

Siroc swallowed hard. Names and introductions were always a fine formality, but introducing her was something different. He didn't use the Marcellus name. It was forgotten and dead, at least in this part of his life. He didn't even use his full name for that matter. His father had once told him that a man should acquire all the knowledge he could, because with knowledge came power. He had no desire to empower his friends with the truth of his life. They assumed he came from humble beginnings and he preferred their assumptions to the truth. But despite his desire to keep his life private, Sancia was right. His overwhelming emotions had caused a severe lapse in etiquette.

Siroc took a deep breath as he started the introduction. "Ramon de la Cruz, François de Batz-Castelmore, Vicomte d'Artagnan and your escort, Jacques Leponte." Siroc gestured to each of them as he spoke with the hand not locked with his sister's. "This is Sancia Marcellus." There, he had said it. They knew her name and he was sure they would know his name by the time Sancia finished talking them to death. He was sure it was coming, especially after her jab about ungentlemanly behavior just to get the introduction. She never stopped talking when they were younger, and as slave, she only kept quiet when their master had threatened to beat Siroc if she didn't stop.

To Siroc's surprise, Sancia was far more reserved than he remembered her. She curtsied politely, but did not elaborate on who she was or offer any stories that would have embarrassed Siroc to the ends of the earth. She had changed from the loud little girl he remembered, and now displayed traits that were more common to Siroc than they had ever been to her.

She gave Siroc's hand a gentle squeeze as she put one foot behind the other and curtsied quickly. The smile remained on her face but she knew from the looks on their faces that her name had no meaning for them. She hadn't expected her name to be recognized though. She had stood in the rain and was now dripping water and freezing because she didn't want to come charging in and give Siroc away. A shiver coursed through her body. Siroc immediately let go of her hand, his protective brother instincts engaged.

"How is it that you know our Siroc, Mademoiselle Marcellus?" d'Artagnan asked as he stood up, reverting to the d'Artagnan that usually resulted in his friends wanting to club him for charming away their date. He reached for her free hand, but before he could take it in his, Siroc let go of her other hand and stood in front of her unhooking the clasp on her cloak. D'Artagnan stepped back suddenly, a little miffed at Siroc for such a rude interruption.

But Siroc wasn't paying attention to his friend's actions. His sister's soggy situation claimed his concentration and he didn't want her to get ill. He pulled the saturated piece from her shoulders and walked over to the fireplace, hanging it on a hook to let it dry. Sancia took her brother's departure as an opportunity to answer d'Artagnan's question. "We grew up together," she stated, trying to not to give them too much information, but at the same time, indicate that she knew Siroc well. Her voice was confident and charming, a tone she used to hide her true thoughts.

As she finished speaking, Siroc came up behind her and put a dry cloak around her. It was warm and smelled like smoke and hay, just like the room she was in. Sancia inhaled, the smile on her face growing slightly, and she closed her eyes, enjoying the cloth that was warming her chilled body. She grabbed his hand that had come around to clasp the cloak and squeezed it gently before letting him pull it away.

The affectionate squeeze did not go unmissed by Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline, and it inspired a few raised eyebrows. Since they had met Siroc, a woman paying him any sort of compliment had slightly unhinged their friend, especially if the woman was forward enough to approach him first. But this Sancia seemed quite forward with their friend and her touch didn't even faze him. Siroc, on the other hand, did not notice the curious looks that they shot his way. Every time she touched his hand and smiled at him, it only reinsured Siroc that his once free-spirited sister stood within arms reach.

"Ah, so you can tell us much about our friend here, no?" Ramon asked, stepping forward with a large grin on his face. His posture and expression could have charmed the birds out of the tress. He had always wanted to know more about his friend and before him stood the one woman who could possibly shed some light on the inner-workings of the genius' mind. Being charming was always a good way to relax a lady into 'interesting' conversation.

"No," Sancia answered, her tone a bit short. She hated men who seeped charm, and instead of relaxing her, Ramon's usual approach only put her on edge. But it wasn't just her reservations that controlled her answer. She wasn't about to tell them anything they didn't already know, at least not without either Siroc's permission or until she knew them better. Sancia doubted she would know them much more than this one introduction. She didn't care if she was being rude either. Sancia had, after all, come with a purpose. The longer she was gone, the more likely it was that she would be caught and it was time to address her brother in private.

Ramon didn't know how to take the woman's curt answer. She seemed pleasant at first, but in less than a minute seemed more like a cat. He would have said something to put her in her place and remind her that he was only being friendly. But somehow Ramon didn't think Siroc would stand for such a thing. Siroc was clearly enthralled with the figure next to him and who knew what the blonde would take exception to. Ramon glanced out of the corner of his eyes at d'Artagnan, wondering what his friend's reaction was. D'Artagnan looked as if he was about to voice something, but never got the chance.

"Come on you two," Jacqueline cut in. "I'm sure these two have some catching up to do." She grabbed d'Artagnan's arm, griping it rather hard in case he protested, and started for the door. Jacqueline had a way with d'Artagnan that let her get away with such actions. Ramon followed, mumbling protests about having to leave. The female musketeer stopped, waiting for d'Artagnan and Ramon to exit. She hesitated before leaving, flashing a smile at Siroc and then followed her friends out, shutting the door.

As the door latch clicked, Sancia turned around and threw her arms around Siroc again. "Oh, how I've missed you, Sirocco," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"And I you," he admitted, returning the embrace. "How did you," he paused, taking a breath. The shock of seeing her still clouded all of his senses, putting him in a euphoric state and making it difficult for him to think. "How did you find me?" They separated and Siroc took her by the hands and lead her to the hearth. Even with his cloak around her, he could still feel how cold she was. They sat down on the warm bricks before continuing their conversation.

"The café," she answered.

Siroc's faced paled and he looked as if he was going to be ill again. He glanced to the corner of his laboratory where he had stashed the bottle of wine he had been drinking earlier. He had hidden it when his friends had started pounding on the door to let them in. He didn't normally drink but today was a day he needed something to calm his nerves. He had a feeling he was going to need another drink.

"You bumped into me when you were leaving the café this morning," she elaborated after seeing the fear in his eyes. "He," she stopped as her brother stood up abruptly. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed loudly, pacing and clearly agitated. "He didn't see you, Sirocco," she assured him.

Siroc's face softened when he heard her words, but the uneasiness still seized every muscle in his body. He spent every day running from his past, worrying about if he'd be eventually caught, what was happening to Sancia, and trying to forget the beatings and abuse he had suffered. What had happened to Sancia? He stopped moving and looked down at his sister. "What 'are' you doing here?" The words came out a bit harsh. He bit his lip as she shrunk back.

"I came to warn you." Tears formed in her eyes again and for the first time since they had embraced, she wondered if he was truly glad to see her. "Vesey has asked for guards to cover the auction. He will be here in the morning to meet with your captain." Her lip began to quiver and she licked her lips quickly to moisten the chapped surface.

Siroc sat back down next to her. His forehead wrinkled, indicating that he was clearly confused about what she was saying. "What — what auction, San?" he asked. His heart thumped against his chest. He had a suspicion that he knew what she was about to say.

She smiled at the sound of her nickname. The name only Siroc had ever called her. "The slave auction. It's the day after next. Master Vesey organized it for some of the landowners from southern France. You didn't know?"

Siroc shook his head no. He started shaking again. His body felt numb as his heart sped up. Vesey couldn't be coming here. If he were to see Siroc, only God would be able to save the inventor from that devil of a man. He fought to keep from panicking. He hated letting his emotions control him. It frustrated him. He couldn't think clearly or solve the problem he was faced with. It was also one of the reasons he didn't drink that often, it dulled the mind. But today had been an exception; he needed to dull his senses. Yes, he was definitely going to need another drink. "How do you know?" he finally asked, his voice shaky.

Sancia huffed at her brother's question and shuddered slightly at the thought of the Cardinal. "He met with the Cardinal today. I overheard their conversation. The Cardinal insisted that the musketeers be charged with keeping order at the auction and told him that he would arrange a meeting with your captain. Do you think I would risk coming here if it wasn't to protect you, 'Roc?" The question was rhetorical; they both knew the answer already.

Siroc ignored the use of his own nickname. She was the only one he ever let get away with calling him that. He honestly didn't know what to think about the situation. Sancia would never put him in danger. In fact, he was certain she would die before she let anything happen to him and the feeling was mutual. But he had questions about what had happened to her over the past five years that would allow her to be privy to such information and the dress she wore — well, there was only one reason a slave would be dressed as a lady. The thought sickened him.

"Why do you look at me like that?" Sancia had noted his change in expression, from fear to disgust.

"I'm sorry, San. I," he paused, feeling a little guilty. He hadn't meant to address her situation. The fact that she was alive was enough. "I just realized something."

Sancia stood up, her faced contorted as if she was in pain and tears formed in her eyes. She knew what he was thinking and what hurt more is that he was correct. "What did you expect would happen with you gone, Sirocco? My great protector was free and I survived the best I could." The words came out bitter and harsh, stinging Siroc. She bore him no ill will about her situation, the fact she was still a slave. After all, she had told him to run. She had screamed it with all the strength her tired body had left that night so long ago.

Siroc stood up quickly and pulled his sister to him once more. She laid her forehead against his chest as she started to cry again. "Forgive me, San." His voice was soft and comforting. "The look wasn't a judgment against you, but of the disgust I feel toward myself for leaving you behind and letting…" he didn't finish the words he had originally thought. He inhaled deeply, letting the breath exhale quickly. "And not being there to protect you." His voice cracked and lowered to a whisper as he spoke the last two words.

Sancia pulled away and looked up at her brother. He touched her face and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Just promise me that you'll not be here tomorrow when Vesey comes. I couldn't bear if he…" She bit her lip and couldn't finish her words. She didn't want to think about what if, although her mind had been dwelling all day on what would happen if Siroc was discovered.

"I promise, San. I'll think of something to tell the captain that will get me far away from here." He shot her a smile, trying his best to reassure her and reassure himself at the same time that it would all work out.

She nodded her head as he spoke. Sancia had done her duty to protect him. Now it was time to protect herself. She had been gone too long, but she would think of something if she was caught. "I must go, 'Roc." She pulled him close one last time before completely pulling away, drawing the cloak completely around her as she turned to leave.

Siroc grabbed her arm. "Sancia, don't go back. We can leave tonight and not look back." His voice was desperate and the look on his face matched his tone. Tears formed in the corners of his gold-brown eyes.

Sancia laughed, although it came out pathetically. "No. You have a life here. I am just hoping to preserve that until the auction is over and Vesey is back in Lyon." The truth was hidden behind the half-smile on her face. The smile was for Siroc's sake. She would give anything to stay with him, but her fear controlled her decision.

She turned to leave, but Siroc stopped her again. "San!"

She pulled her arm from his grasp. She wasn't upset with him, but she was having a hard enough time forcing herself to leave when she wanted nothing more than to stay with her brother. "If I run, Vesey will never stop hunting me, Sirocco. I know too much. I am too much of a liability." Siroc didn't really understand what she meant but he nodded anyway, knowing that she would not say something unless she truly meant it. "If I can, I will meet you tomorrow just after nightfall by the bridge across the Seine. At least while I am in Paris, I shall pretend to be free and see my brother." She flashed him one last bitter-sweet smile before pulling the hood over her head and walking quickly from the room before he could protest.

Oh how she had missed him, and he her.


	8. Chapter 8

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Eight: We All Have Our Secrets**

Jacqueline tossed in her bed. She couldn't get comfortable and therefore could not sleep. Her mind nagged at her, endlessly replaying the dramatic scene that had unfolded in front of her and the sight of the woman in the rain. She had questions and concerns, mostly stemming from the feeling that she knew who this woman was or at least should know. Not being able to place what was so familiar about Sancia frustrated Jacqueline.

Sancia Marcellus. At least Jacqueline had a face to put with the name that haunted her friend's dreams, forcing him to shed tears at the thought of her. She had a beautiful face too. Not even Sancia's disheveled state took away from beauty, her gentle features. It was the eyes that disturbed Jacqueline. She had seen those eyes before. She was certain of it, but where?

Jacqueline growled in frustration, smacked the bed with clenched fists and sat up. She had no hope of finding sleep this night. She fumbled in the dark for the flint next to her bed, finding it after groping at nothing for a few seconds, and lit the candle at her bedside. She climbed out from under her covers, shivering as her bare feet touched the cold floor. Her chest was unbound, covered only in a white linen shirt, and her hair was free, framing her face with perfect little curls and ringlets. She wore pants and a shirt to bed nightly, afraid to dress down too far even behind the locked door of her room.

She walked over to the small desk that set against the opposite wall from her bed and picked up a bundle that sat there. She stared at the square package that was wrapped in blue cloth, tied by string. It had been sitting on her desk since yesterday afternoon and she had completely forgotten to give it to Siroc. She had decided days before that when she got paid she would pick him up a few things for his lab, some new notebooks and several packages of herbs to restock the collection he had lost. It wasn't much, but it was something. She didn't like to see him so out of sorts and neither did the others. Ramon and d'Artagnan had some things for him as well, but after being in the laboratory that evening, they apparently hadn't given him their surprise. She set it back down on her desk as she smiled. Since she couldn't sleep, she would leave it for him now.

After taking a few minutes to bind her chest, tuck in her shirt and tie her hair, Jacqueline retrieved the parcel and crept quietly into the hallway in her stocking feet. The silence was eerie. It was rare that she moved about the garrison at this time of night. She traced the wall with her finger tips, having forgotten her candle in her room, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, making her way to Siroc's laboratory.

As she approached the door, she could see the light flickering into the passageway. Jacqueline paused, hesitant to intrude if Siroc was not alone. Jacqueline shrugged off the thought. _It is the middle of the night and he isn't stupid enough to have her in the laboratory at this hour_, she thought as she forced herself forward.

She pushed the door completely open with her free hand. Not one of the lamps was lit, she noted. The soft light that danced into the hallway was coming from the fireplace. Jacqueline sighed quietly and continued slowly into the large room. She peered from behind the newly resurrected shelves that blocked the view of the door from the fire. She had half expected to see her friend asleep at the table, but the room appeared to be empty. She tested each step, trying not to squeak the floor boards, and made her way to the table, setting the bundle down.

As she set the package down, she looked toward the fire and saw something she hadn't expected. Siroc sat on the hearth, his back against several bags of Jacqueline could only guess what. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles and an open book in his lap. His right arm draped across his stomach with his left elbow resting on his wrist and his face resting on the knuckles of his left hand. Jacqueline couldn't tell if he was asleep but he appeared to be staring at the flames, oblivious to her presence.

Jacqueline stood watching for a moment. She didn't want to disturb her friend's thoughts, but if he was asleep, she didn't want to leave him like that either. She knew worrying about such things was a feminine concern, but, at the same time, even Duval had addressed a proper night's sleep with the cadets a time or two. Besides, Siroc would be far more comfortable in his bed. "Siroc," she said quietly as she moved toward him, deepening her voice as she customarily did. Siroc didn't say a word, but lowered his arm so that both were now crossed in front of him. His eyes never left the fire, but he was clearly awake. "It's late. You should get some sleep," she said, squatting down next to him.

He still did not look at her. But she could see part of his expressionless, slightly flushed face in the poor light. "What are you doing up?" he asked, his voice soft.

Jacqueline shifted her weight and let herself sit on the stone next to him. "I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd leave something for you. I meant to give it to you earlier but well…" She let her words trail off, shrugging, tilting her head slightly to one side, and flashing him a 'knowing' smile.

He closed his eyes and moved his head slightly away from the fire and down, sighing and holding his position for a moment. He bit his lip and lifted his head slowly, opening his eyes as his head came up. Jacqueline stifled a gasp as his eyes met hers. He looked tired and pained at the same time. But his expression was not what inspired the sudden intake of air. The nagging question that had plagued her all night finally had an answer.

"What's wrong?" Siroc asked, noting his friend's expression and finding it slightly confusing. He had been sitting in front of the fire since Sancia had left, thinking. The joy that had filled his heart had quickly faded to emptiness, a dark plague that ate at his soul. He wanted to help his sister, save her, protect her as he had always done. All of his ideas, inventions and he couldn't think of a single plan to free Sancia. Jacques' interruption was actually pleasantly welcomed. As much as he wanted to be alone, he needed something to distract him from his overwhelming thoughts.

"Nothing, I just realized something," she answered, faltering slightly as she tried to select her words. Siroc turned his head back toward the fire and Jacqueline was sure he was avoiding her gaze. "How long has it been since you last saw Sancia?" she asked, not wanting to yet reveal that she knew who she was to him.

He took an audible, deep breath and his face contorted slightly. "Four years, eleven months, fourteen days. Give or take a few hours," he said bitterly. He hated every day without Sancia and it seemed much longer than that to him. The years they had spent apart were the years that changed a child to an adult and he had missed everything that had made her the woman she was now, good and bad. He wondered if the feeling was the same for her.

Jacqueline raised her eyebrows and her mouth fell open. She was shocked that he had given her an exact time and at the amount of time that had passed since he had seen Sancia. "I take it you two were close," she observed as she shifted, bringing her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. He only nodded his head yes. "My brother and I were very close. There was a time that I couldn't imagine not having him around," she paused, debating whether to play her hand. "So I can imagine how you feel not seeing—" she stopped once more trying to discern something from his expression "—your sister in so long." Jacqueline winced, then leaned back, not sure how he would take her comment.

Siroc frowned at the thought of Jacques knowing, but there was nothing he could do about it now. "Sancia told you?" he asked, his tone even. It would be like Sancia to say something even if she had avoided such commentary in front of d'Artagnan and Ramon. _Perhaps she hasn't changed_, he thought. But again, he knew that wasn't true. She was different. Just with their brief encounter, he could see how serious she had become and how afraid she was. The zest she had for life had been squashed and fear controlled her tongue. Her eyes reflected pain instead of vibrancy and joy. All the hopes and dreams they had when they were children had shriveled and died. And the guilt Siroc felt from the knowledge of what Vesey had done to her was like a knife piercing his heart. His eyes blinked as he continued to watch the slowly dying flames.

"No," Jacqueline answered. She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to decide how to tell him and still remain manly. After all, most men didn't notice another man's eyes. "I noticed a resemblance. I just assumed."

"Oh," he acknowledged, holding his stoic expression. He wasn't surprised by Jacques words. Siroc spent every day observing the world around him and trying to figure out how things worked and why they were. Why should he be the only person that ever noted the details? Besides, he and Sancia looked as much alike as any siblings could.

"Will she being staying long?" Jacqueline asked after about a minute of silence. Siroc did not seem to mind the quiet, but Jacqueline had started to feel uncomfortable. She had watched his unchanging face, noting sadness in his eyes. Even in the dim light, she could see the dark rings, the slight worry lines in his brow. It was strange to see him like this. He was usually reserved, but this felt different to Jacqueline.

"No. I'm sure she'll be leaving after the auction," he said sadly. He didn't want her to go, but that was the truth of it. Siroc had no power against a man like Vesey. The only power he had ever managed was the strength to run and keep running until his feet had brought him to Paris. But he would trade everything for her. She should be free. She should have been safe and happy, not worn down by years of abuse and scarred by wounds that would never heal. What killed him the most was how much she had changed. The knife in his heart twisted at the thought that if he couldn't free her, the sister he loved would be unrecognizable in just a few short years. But what could he do? She would leave and be gone from his life as quickly as she had reentered it. He needed a plan.

"Ramon and d'Artagnan told you?" Jacqueline asked as she touched her cheek to her knees but kept her fluttering eyes on her friend. The warmth of the fire was making her sleepy.

"Sancia told me actually," he answered after another long pause. His attention moved from the fire to the book in his lap. The page was open to a sketch of two children, one of many such sketches. He stared at the faces. It seemed like a lifetime ago that his father had sat in a chair, sketching in his notebook, as he and Sancia sat with their heads together reading.

Jacqueline looked down as he did at the yellow tinged paper. She was a little surprised to see a drawing. Siroc kept most of his personal notebooks to himself, and from what Jacqueline had noticed, they were usually a combination of writing and drawings of animals or some mechanical device. This was the first time she had seen just a sketch of people.

Jacqueline looked back up as Siroc closed the book. He was still looking down, eyes tightly shut. "Can you do something for me, Jacques?" he said, biting his lip again. The impassive expression he had held throughout their conversation was now replaced by one of fear and need.

"Sure," she said, stifling a yawn with her right hand. His expression didn't go unnoticed however. As their eyes locked, a chill shot through her body and the hair stood up on the back of her neck. The look on his face was unsettling and completely uncharacteristic. It sparked in her a new wave of concern.

"Cover for me tomorrow morning. I 'need' to get out for a while," he said. Siroc was adamant about leaving. He had planned to just sneak out before dawn and face the consequences when he returned. He would do it one way or another but it would be easier if he had a friend covering for him and next to him sat a friend. Jacques had proven that in the short time they had known each other. They were friends, despite Siroc's inability to trust him with the details of his youth. He didn't trust anyone with his history.

"I'll do my best, but what would you like me to tell the captain, d'Artagnan and Ramon?"

"Anything you can think of. I don't care," he told her before adding one more thought. "Just 'don't' mention my sister," he insisted. His eyes narrowed slightly as he spoke as if the piercing look would somehow engrave his words into Jacques mind.

It was painfully obvious to Jacqueline that whatever had separated them still haunted Siroc. He was hiding something from them. It was the only reason Jacqueline could think of that he didn't want anyone to know about Sancia. But he wasn't the only one hiding things. A woman disguised as a man, who was she to pry? "We all have our secrets, Siroc," she said as reassurance. She watched for a moment, debating whether to ask and ultimately deciding she would. "Are you all right?" She reached out, grasping his shoulder, as she spoke.

"I'm fine," he said, trying to sound convincing but the words came out slightly choked. He shrugged her hand away.

Jacqueline didn't comment on her words or his reaction to her touch. She tried to accept his reassurance, even as weak as it was. She yawned again. "Well, I'm going to go back to bed. Get some sleep yourself. All right?" Siroc nodded his head yes, but did not move, as Jacqueline stood, brushing herself off. She watched him for a moment and took a deep breath, weighing heavily what to say. 'Good night' didn't seem appropriate as an exit line when she wanted so badly to hug him again. Something reassuring would have to do. "Things will work out, Siroc. They always do."

He didn't comment, although he seriously doubted Jacques' words.


	9. Chapter 9

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Nine: Outbursts**

The sky had moved past its gray to red phase and now the sun shown gold and bright in the eastern sky on its slow rise into the day. The sound of steel connecting with steel echoed through the courtyard and into the garrison, an annoying reminder that it was time to get up for the musketeers who had yet to crawl from their beds.

D'Artagnan stepped out into the hall, stretching his arms over his head. He was dressed in his gray and blue uniform, with his hair tied back at the top of his neck in the usual fashion and rapier at his side. He looked up and down the passageway and was a little surprised to not see Jacqueline. For months, she had met him in the hall almost every morning to 'get their blood moving,' and did she ever get his blood moving! His heart raced, his hands sweated and she generally made him crazy. She was spirited and a handful most days. But, whether she knew it, he loved her. He loved seeing her face in the morning and the heated battles they engaged in.

D'Artagnan's eyes fell on Jacqueline's door. Realizing she wasn't going to emerge, he headed for her room and knocked lightly. He waited a few moments; there was no answer. He knocked again, a bit harder, but there was still no answer. He tried the handle and to his surprise, the door opened. He shook his head at her carelessness. "Jacques?" he called, poking his head in the door. His breath caught at the sight before him. Jacqueline's sleeping form lay stretched out in her bed. Her bare feet hung over the side of the bed and although her hair was tied back, part of it had come free and lined the side of her face. She looked beautiful.

He slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him and moved toward the bed. "Jacqueline," he called, trying to wake her without getting too close. She was always a bit jumpy and he had no desire to get smacked. When she didn't stir, he knew he was going to have to actually touch her to wake her up. He prepared himself for her reaction as he knelt down by the bed and gently shook her shoulder. "Jacqueline," he said.

Jacqueline's eyes fluttered open. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the sunlight that filled her room. She turned her head, hearing something but still too asleep to understand what it was. She looked into the brown eyes that were staring at her and smiled.

"Good morning," d'Artagnan said, returning her smile with a lopsided grin. His smile was immediately returned with him falling backward onto his rear as Jacqueline jumped out of the bed, startled.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, slightly miffed. She brushed the stray strands of hair back behind her ears frantically and looked herself over to make sure she was indeed decent.

D'Artagnan started laughing at the frazzled woman in front of him. He was easily amused by a lot of things. However in this situation, his amusement stemmed from watching the normally serious and uptight woman look completely off kilter. Jacqueline really did need to learn to relax, which made the look all that more amusing. He was also mildly curious why she hadn't hauled off and hit him instead of smiling sweetly. _Perhaps she does like me_. It was a very pleasing thought. "I came to wake you up." He stopped laughing and tried his best to give her a serious expression. "It's time for morning muster and you left the door unlocked. You really should be more careful. If I had been anyone else…" The words trailed off.

"I did lock the door," she hissed. Her eyes narrowed into her trademark glare as d'Artagnan stood up and crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows. Jacqueline winced and she bit her lip. "Oh, Siroc," she said, hitting the palm of her hand against her forehead.

"Uh, what about Siroc?" d'Artagnan asked, a little confused and slightly jealous over her sudden realization. She had been worrying a lot about Siroc recently. He shifted slightly at the idea that it could be something more than concern for a friend. Perhaps the mysterious woman had sparked something in Jacqueline, a realization that Siroc meant more to her.

"I couldn't sleep so I took some of the stuff I got him to the lab last night. I must have forgotten to lock the door when I came back," she admitted, chastising herself for doing something so stupid. "Now, would you excuse me, d'Artagnan? I need to change."

The lopsided grin came back to his face as his arms dropped back to his side. He felt slightly relieved. He was seriously considering telling her 'no' just to get a rise out of her. But, then again, what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn't leave? "As you wish," he said, turning to exit. He stopped with his hand on the handle. The image of Jacqueline's angelic figure flashed through his mind. "Oh, have I told you how beautiful you are when you sleep?" He looked over his shoulder at her, throwing her an ear to ear smile and laughing lightly. The words were teasing, but only to hide how sincere he was. It was easier to hide behind a jest than to share how he really felt about her.

She wished for something to throw at him at that very moment but all she could manage was a glare before he quickly slipped out the door to avoid her wrath. She growled and shook her head, annoyed at his brazen behavior. But despite his often obnoxious deportment, her features softened as the door closed. As she stood alone in the middle of her room, the edges of her mouth curved and her cheeks flushed. She enjoyed his compliment even if she'd never admit it to him.

One by one the shops and cafés that lined the streets appeared to rush past the inordinate carriage instead of the other way around. People split, clearing a path down the center for the moderately moving coach. The calls of vendors selling their wares, children laughing, the curses of a man who had just lost everything, the songs of Sisters tending to their holy duties, all came together in a cacophony of noise. Loud and busy and supposedly refined, that was Paris. Had Sancia visited such a place when she was young, she would have loved the calamity. But now, it was just chaos, one more thing to assault her senses and irritate her, and the company next to her made the beautiful day dreary at best.

She felt like she was under a dark gray, gloomy cloud. Her head and body ached. The acrid smoke drifting from her master's pipe only added to the nauseated feeling that was slowly creeping over her. Sancia took a deep breath, fighting the jitters that were trying to surface. _Sirocco will not be there. There is no reason to worry_, she tried to convince herself. She inhaled again, slowly letting the air fill her chest and expand her rib cage. However, her corset was too tight to let her expand too far. Vesey had insisted that she look particularly elegant today. She wore a low cut, pink dress, with blue flowers embroidered along the collar and cuffs. Her hair was pulled back, gathered in the back and curled excessively. Small, blonde ringlets framed her face and two rather large rubies hung from her ears. A simple ruby necklace hung from her neck, swooping to about the clavicle with a string of three blood-red gems hanging down. He had special plans for today. He only pulled out the jewels when he did.

"Remember what I said, Sancia. I want information," Vesey said sternly, taking another puff of his pipe.

Sancia rolled her eyes before looking over her left shoulder at the man beside her, her expression changing to a smile. "Of course, Master. Although I don't understand why you want information on the musketeers. They will only be preventing theft. It's hardly worth…" Sancia gasped and her hand flew to her cheek, where Vesey had hit her.

"I didn't ask for your opinion," he hissed. "I suggest you do as you're told or so help me I'll put you on the block next to the others," he threatened. It was an empty threat. He would never sell her, but she didn't know that. It was all about control and Vesey loved controlling his world. He had damaging information on everyone and everything in it. These musketeers would be no different. Besides, he had had his own share of troubles with a former musketeer years ago and wasn't about to take the chance of finding himself in an equally uncomfortable position. Although there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't congratulate himself on how he had disposed of the man and his wife, the parents of the little whelp next to him. They had burned as heretics thanks to his "church" connections. His only remaining doubt about that incident was that Vesey had never found the documents that had been taken from him. He would have surely been executed for treason if they had survived the fire they had set to Donatien Marcellus' estate that night.

"Well then sell me!" Sancia shouted, her hand still touching her face. Her anger at being struck had gotten the best of her. She had been having a hard time controlling her emotional outbursts over the last day. Her eyes narrowed and her breaths were short and hard. She had not spoken in such a manner to her master since Siroc had escaped. Perhaps it was because she wanted to be with her brother or perhaps it was merely the pounding in her head that had caused her actions. Regardless of its root, she wanted nothing more than to take a sharp blade to this callous man's throat. Sancia tired of the games, the intrigues that she was forced to be a part of. What right did he have to blackmail good people, to air their dirty laundry to the whole of society? He was manipulative and arrogant and had destroyed so many people's lives.

Vesey's hand shot out, grasping Sancia's throat. He squeezed hard as both of her hands pulled at his arm. She gasped for air, her eyes wide and full of fear. "Do I have to remind you of your place?" he said sternly, releasing the hold slightly when Sancia's lips began to turn a purplish blue. "Don't let those glittering jewels and fancy dresses go to your head, because I can take them away as easy as I gave them. You are a slave and no better than a whore. I may not have that brother of yours around anymore to keep you in line, but so help me, if I have to beat you to death, you will learn your place." As he finished, he threw her against the side of the carriage before putting the pipe stem back to his lips, taking another puff as if nothing had happened.

Sancia slumped as she ricocheted off the side. Both her hands were at her throat and she coughed uncontrollably. The carriage came to a stop. She could feel his eyes locked on her trembling form. After taming her coughing fits, she took several deep breaths. She needed to compose herself before they exited the carriage. No one could see her like this, not when she had a job to do. She forced a smile on her face, trying to put all the false charm she usually called upon into the expression. She hated Vesey, but once again, she was going to do what she had to survive.

Ramon sat at the table in the common room, dressed in his tunic and jacket. His rapier sat on the table in front of him. His elbows rested on the table top, a cup in his hands. He sipped the hot coffee slowly as he watched the battle going on in the courtyard. However, his mind was not on the dueling musketeers.

He had climbed from his comfortable bed a bit before dawn. He was eager to talk to Siroc and find out all about the lovely, although cat-like, Sancia Marcellus. Knowing his friend as he did, the Spaniard assumed Siroc would already be up, continuing his systematic reconstruction of his favorite space. But instead of actually getting a chance to prod Siroc into a full-out confession on his relationship with the gorgeous blonde, he had instead strolled into the common room just in time to see Siroc slip out the front entrance. Where Siroc would be going that early, Ramon could not fathom. It vexed him to no end. Not only would he have to suppress his curiosity, he was going to have to practice with another cadet unless he could talk Jacques or d'Artagnan into staving their morning ritual. That wasn't likely.

"Good morning, Ramon," d'Artagnan's cheery voice echoed through the common room from behind the poet.

"Bueno, no," Ramon said, shaking his head and taking another sip. He didn't like puzzles first thing in the morning and Siroc's actions were just that. At least d'Artagnan was up and could help him sort out the pieces.

"Did you not sleep well, my friend?" d'Artagnan asked, sitting on the table top next to his friend. D'Artagnan leaned back, putting his hands behind him on the surface to support him.

Ramon's brows furrowed as he looked up at the younger man. "Mi amigo, where would Siroc be going before first light?" He answered d'Artagnan's question with one of his own.

D'Artagnan shrugged and reached for one of the croissants in the bread basket at the end of the table. "Perhaps he had an early rendezvous with a certain lady," d'Artagnan joked, grinning regardless of Ramon's sour expression. D'Artagnan knew it was unlikely that Siroc would be sneaking off to meet a lady, perhaps for an invention but not a lady. He pulled apart the warm, flaky piece of bread and popped part of it into his mouth.

"He has been acting strangely, d'Artagnan," Ramon stated, setting the cup down. "His sulky attitude, whatever that was at the café yesterday morning, this strange woman and now I got up just in time to see him slipping out of the garrison. He is concerning me, amigo. I do think it's time we address it with him." Ramon picked up the cup and took a gulp of the bitter drink, at least bitter in anyone else's opinion. Ramon liked the drink. He thought better and felt more alive. Besides, the wonderful liquid chased away the headaches he seemed to have in the morning.

"Address what with whom?" Jacqueline asked as she emerged from the hallway, pulling on her gloves. She looked at Ramon and then d'Artagnan, who raised his eyebrows quickly in a reminder of their conversation in Jacqueline's room. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the Spaniard.

"Siroc's behavior," d'Artagnan answered, tearing off another piece of the croissant and consuming it. He swallowed before he continued. "Ramon thinks he's been entirely too moody since — well, the accident and now he thinks Siroc's acting peculiar, which I have to agree with. I don't think I've ever seen him hold a woman the way he did Mademoiselle Marcell… — hey, isn't that her?" D'Artagnan leaned back slightly, peering out the open door to the courtyard. Two heads moved to follow d'Artagnan's gaze.

Duval watched the exuberant carriage come to halt. "Oh, lord," he quipped, rolling his eyes skyward as if addressing God. If the man was anything like his carriage, Duval knew it would take all of his patience to deal with this Maurice Vesey. He hadn't been looking forward to this meeting since he had received word yesterday afternoon. The king had requested, at Mazarin's insistence, that musketeers be used to prevent any thefts during the auction. It was a distasteful request, but Duval had his duty. He preferred men who where honorable and fought for the good of society, not add to its degeneration. His opinions on slavery and its injustices would have to be bottled for the time being.

The coachman opened the door and Duval had to stifle his repulsion. Although well dressed and well groomed, Vesey had an air about him that triggered sharp responses, at least in decent people. "Monsieur Vesey, I am Captain Duval," he said, inclining his head slightly, but only to be polite. He struggled to keep his expression indifferent.

"I assume that the Cardinal has apprised you of my request," Vesey said, his voice a little cold. He straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin to look down his nose at the aging musketeer.

"No, sir, the king has made the request and therefore we…" Duval paused as he caught sight of the young woman, who the driver was assisting. A pang of recognition fired through his brain. He shook off the thought, knowing it was impossible. The woman, the wife of a dear friend who Sancia reminded him of, had been dead for years. His eyes moved back to the dark man in front of him. "We'd be happy to oblige your request, sir." Duval turned his attention back to the woman who was now at Vesey's side. "Milady, I don't believe we've been introduced." He smiled warmly at Sancia, a smile of sincerity instead of charm.

Duval bowed, taking Sancia's now outstretched hand. She offered it to him freely, something she rarely did. Usually such a gesture was part of the endless games of intrigue she participated in. But this man was the first one that hadn't repulsed her when he smiled. His warmth and sincerity reminded her of her father. "Madam Sancia Vesey," she said as he kissed her hand and she curtsied slowly, finally beginning the show that had been demanded of her. She fought the desire to vomit as she said the name. It wasn't really her name, but it was the name she had been ordered to give. Her master would never stoop so low as to ever marry a slave, although he had no qualms about doing other things.

"Have we met before, milady?" Duval asked, releasing her hand. He stared into the sea of honey-gold that was her eyes. He found it difficult to pull his own from her. She looked so much like Raissa Marcellus that it was disturbing. Again, he shut his thoughts out. There was no way this was Raissa or her daughter. His friends' children had died with them. He had received a letter from a mutual friend shortly after the family had been executed informing him of their 'passing.' The thought of it had broken his heart and outraged him all at the same time. As long as he lived, he would never believe Donatien or Raissa were heretics. Raissa had been one of the most spiritual women Duval had ever met. The captain had never met their twins, but from correspondences Donatien had sent him, he knew how much their father had loved them.

"I don't believe so, Captain. This is my first trip to Paris," she answered, the smile on her face waning slightly as Vesey cleared his throat.

"Captain, I do believe we have business to attend to," Vesey cut in, slightly uncomfortable with the small exchange. He had chosen to pass Sancia as his wife to avoid any such recognition from any older musketeers that would have known Donatien Marcellus. Apparently, he wasn't that lucky because the captain, of all people, had managed to recognize her. "If you would lead the way to your office, I'd much prefer to discuss matters in private."

Duval gestured with his hand toward the garrison door and Vesey immediately marched across the courtyard, leaving Duval and Sancia to follow. Normally, Duval would offer a lady his arm, but the rate in which Vesey moved left no time for such pleasantries.

Three gawking heads watched the exchange in the courtyard and quickly returned to a comfortable position as the small group came in the door. "Good morning, musketeers," Duval greeted, although his mood was hard to ascertain. His voice gave the indication that he was in a pleasant mood but the expression on his face said something completely different. "Boys, please show Madam Vesey around a bit while I discuss some business with Monsieur Vesey," he ordered but didn't wait for a response as they left Sancia alone with her brother's friends.

D'Artagnan and Ramon stood up, glaring at Sancia. The smile that had graced her lips faded with the click of the captain's door. Ramon picked up his blade and slung the leather strap over his head. "Madam?" they both said not quite in unison. They both looked furious. D'Artagnan's lips curled with disgust, in an expression that he usually reserved for people that he truly disliked. Ramon looked like steam was about to come out his ears. The hot-blooded Spaniard's hands were clenched and his jaw was set. The piercing, dark look he gave Sancia would have made a sane person run in self preservation. This woman had not corrected their friend when he introduced her, giving them the impression that he was unaware of her attached state and validating their reaction. There was no way they were going to let her get away with deceiving Siroc.

Sancia lifted her chin and crossed her arms in front of her, tucking her hands at her side instead of resting them on the other arm, much like her brother. Her eyes narrowed to small slits so that the gold in her eyes looked like fire. She could sense what was coming and had a feeling it wasn't going to be a pretty scene. "Yes, Madam Vesey." Her head shook slightly as she said the distasteful words. "Have you something to say about that, sirs?"

Jacqueline cringed at the sight. They had immediately gone on the offensive when they heard Sancia's name. D'Artagnan and Ramon assumed too much but Siroc hadn't corrected their misconception. Sancia was clearly in a mood herself, shedding any contrary pretenses when that pompous looking man had left with the captain. Jacqueline moved herself, standing just to the side of the triangle, preparing to jump in if anything 'uncivil' should occur.

"I most certainly do," Ramon snapped at her. "Given the fact that you did not correct Siroc when he introduced you, I should think that he is wholly unaware of your connection to Monsieur Vesey. I wish to inform you that when Siroc returns, he will be told."

Sancia stepped forward, straightening herself to her full height and looked up at the tall man in front of her and the slightly shorter man to his right. "My 'relationship' with your friend is our business, Señor," she practically spat the words. "So I suggest you mind your business and we shall mind ours."

"Siroc is our business, Madam," d'Artagnan insisted but said madam as sarcastically as he could manage while still glaring.

"Exactly," Ramon chimed. "And we surely aren't going to let some tripe woman deceive him or meddle with his heart."

One edge of Sancia's mouth curved as she brought her arms back to her side. "If you insult me again, sir, I shall demand satisfaction and I will have it," she scoffed.

"What? Tripe," Ramon said, rolling his eyes at the woman's remark. "Well, I usually don't go around insulting women, so let me offer my deepest apology, Madam," he paused, throwing her a charming smile before letting it fade from his face. "…that the truth is so bitter. Name your man and I shall defend my remarks. I am not about to stand by and watch you trample my friend with your lies."

Something about his words made Sancia snap — the arrogance of them. As Ramon uttered his last word, her left hand pulled his blade from its sheath and the tip of his blade found a home just above his belly button. The sound of another rapier being drawn and a gasp echoed from beside them. She felt the tip of d'Artagnan's blade come up to her throat, but she only spared him a brief glance before locking her eyes with Ramon's very wide orbs. "I don't need a man to defend my honor. I am perfectly capable of defending myself," she snarled. "You assume too much about my relationship with 'Siroc' and I suggest you keep your concerns to yourself." She dug the blade a little into his flesh, understanding perfectly well the Spanish curses he was spitting at her. "He will always choose me over a fool like you. I should also like to note that the only reason I haven't sliced you from your navel to your throat is because you are his friend." She stepped back, extending her left arm to its full length and taking the fencing stance she habitually began with. Strangely enough, Jacqueline noted, it was the same stance Siroc usually began in. The blade was still pressed to Ramon's abdomen.

D'Artagnan stepped forward, keeping his blade at her throat, ignoring the calls of the small crowd that was beginning to gather and that were telling him to disarm her. Fortunately for Sancia, the shouts of the other musketeers were still too mild to draw the attention of her master and the captain. "Lower the blade, Madam," he ordered. Jacqueline stood frozen at d'Artagnan's side, caught between defending Siroc's sister and siding with her friends. What made the scene even more shocking was that the ever chivalrous gentleman actually had a blade to a woman's throat. This was more than Jacqueline had expected when the snarling pair approached Sancia.

"Or what?" she hissed. "You'll kill me? Ha!" she laughed. "Please do!" she finished with a new look in her eyes. The fury had been replaced by that of a mournful plea that sent chills through d'Artagnan.

"Lower your blades, both of you!" Jacqueline called, stepping forward to put her hand on d'Artagnan's sword arm. She didn't hide her feminine voice, despite the audience. She only wished to get the situation under control. Keeping her hand on his arm, she looked over at Sancia and then at Ramon who was glaring darkly. "Sancia, please forgive Ramon. He seems to be in a foul temperament this morning," she paused as Ramon's dark eyes were now fixed on her. Deepening her voice, she added, "As do you." Jacqueline was trying to call on reason and instill it in the others. "There is no need for any of this. It's only a misunderstanding."

D'Artagnan began to lower his blade the same time Sancia lowered Ramon's. "I don't think I misunderstood anything," Ramon snapped, less than appreciative of Jacqueline's comments. Sancia chucked his blade at him, hilt first. He caught the handle, gripping it hard and saying a few choice Spanish words.

To the group's surprise, she shot a few back at him in Spanish before adding an insult that could be understood by everyone in the room. "Well, no one would ever dare call you a wit!" Seeing Ramon twitch, Jacqueline quickly moved forward and grabbed Sancia's arm, pulling her toward the courtyard door. Sancia did not fight Jacqueline, but allowed herself to be taken. Siroc's fiery twin's only response as she was ushered out the door was a loud, resounding, "OHHHHH, MEN!" Her frustration was apparent, and to make matters worse, Sancia knew she was in for it when she was alone with her master again. There was no way he missed that shout, which clearly indicated she wasn't doing what he wanted her to.


	10. Chapter 10

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Ten: Discussions**

Jacqueline ushered Sancia along, through the garrison gate and up the street toward Café Nouveau. The scene replayed in her mind as she force-marched Sancia. Ramon had actually insulted a lady, and d'Artagnan was right by his side. The defenders of virtue had crossed a line simply because they thought Sancia was misusing someone they thought of as a brother. Jacqueline could almost picture the pair in red uniforms instead of gray. Their behavior was no better than that of the Cardinal's guards, for only his guardsmen ever addressed a woman in such a fashion. Jacqueline was appalled. But at the same time, she couldn't help but understand their position. Had she been ignorant of Siroc and Sancia's connection, Jacqueline had no doubt she would have been just as indignant.

Sancia abruptly yanked her arm from Jacqueline's grasp and turned quickly up an alley. She didn't know where she was going; she just wanted to get away. She had enough of men. They were bullies, rude, hurtful and power hungry. _How can Sirocco have such friends!_ she thought. She was fit to be tied and wanted nothing more than to scream and clobber someone. She stopped abruptly, coming to a wall and the alley's dead end. She spun on her heels, ready to trudge back up the narrow alleyway, but Jacqueline stood not far behind her, waiting patiently. Sancia crossed her arms and shoved her hands under her arms, while clenching her jaw and narrowing her eyes again until they glowed.

"Where are you going?" Jacqueline asked the irate woman. She spoke using her real voice, instead of the harsh, deeper one she had grown accustomed to. Jacqueline hoped the sound would calm her. Sancia clearly had issues with men, but then again, what woman didn't? She didn't dare move closer to the fuming figure though. Sancia had the same look of rage she had in her eyes when she pulled Ramon's rapier on him.

"Away from you and this damned place!" she yelled, growling in frustration as she finished. She felt caged and she hated the feeling. A slave was always caged. Sancia longed to break through the steel bars and stone walls that surrounded her soul, to escape and never look back at the wretchedness that had become her life. She would take out the slender 'man' in front of her if that would set her free, but it wouldn't. She threw her arms back to her side and stiffened her shoulders. One foot in front of the other, she coldly brushed past Jacqueline, looking to the brilliant light at the end as if it was the gateway to her salvation.

"Sancia," Jacqueline called, not willing to let her just storm off. The blonde had so much anger. She pretended, masqueraded as if she was happy. The confrontation between Sancia and Ramon had shown Jacqueline the façade that masked her. The female musketeer felt the need to help Siroc's sister the same way she would help Siroc. Her gestures and even some of her expressions were the same as his. _Siroc_. Perhaps he was the key to calm the fleeing lady. "What would your brother say if he saw you behave so badly?" she asked, revealing to her what she could not reveal to her dear friends.

Sancia stopped just short of the end of the alley's intersection with the street and turned back to face the overly feminine 'man.' "You know who I am?" she asked, a little surprised. The aggression that had gripped her petite form subsided slightly, enough for the wrinkles that had creased her forehead to melt away.

Jacqueline nodded her head yes, keeping her green eyes locked with Sancia's gold. Sancia's brow began to furrow again and her hands balled into fists. Jacqueline immediately knew why she was upset; she would feel the same if their positions were reversed. "I apologize for not saying something sooner, Sancia, but Siroc asked me not to," she told her, hoping to pacify the strong-willed mademoiselle. It seemed to work.

Sancia shook her head, rolling her eyes. To Jacqueline's surprise, Sancia's lips curved slightly, just enough for her right cheek to dimple. "That would be just like 'Siroc.' He's always been secretive." Sancia laughed as she finished speaking, but it wasn't the cheery sound that the inventor loved to hear. It had bitterness to it, a longing that Jacqueline could sense but couldn't understand.

Jacqueline shifted, not sure how to respond. She knew her friend, not as well as d'Artagnan and Ramon, but she knew him well enough to know that there was darkness in his past. "Perhaps you'd let me buy you a cup of coffee," Jacqueline offered, figuring it was a good way to get better acquainted with the woman that meant so much to her friend. The image of tears rolling down his cheeks as he pulled Sancia to him flashed in Jacqueline's mind. "It would be a good way to pass the time while you wait for your husband."

"Eww." She cringed at the thought, not thinking about what she was supposed to be pretending; once again, she reacted on emotion. Sancia bit her lip, realizing she had just betrayed the lie. But of Siroc's three friends, she liked 'Jacques.' There was something about his mannerisms, his voice that put her at ease. Not to mention Siroc had trusted him enough to reveal the small piece of information about her. Sancia would trust 'him' too, at least for now. "It is mademoiselle, Monsieur Leponte. Just," Sancia paused, noting Jacqueline's puzzled expression. "Just, please, don't ask me to explain anything."

Jacqueline walked forward and placed her hand gently on Sancia's shoulder. "I wouldn't dare ask. I have no desire to have you pull a blade on me." Jacqueline flashed a smile and giggled, a feminine laugh, but it felt good to be 'womanly' even for a moment. She spent too much time as Jacques Leponte and not enough time just being Jacqueline. Sancia's laughter echoed hers and for the first time, the slave forgot the pain in her head and her heart.

Thinking back, the scene was rather amusing to them both. Sancia barely came to Ramon's chest, Jacqueline's chin. It was hard to think that this little flaxen beauty could be so fierce in the face of the tall, swarthy Spaniard. "I would like to hear about you though," Jacqueline finally said after they had considered each other for a few moments. She took her arm from Sancia's shoulder and instead offered it in the customary way a gentleman did for a lady.

Sancia hesitated for a moment, but slipped her arm through the musketeer's. It felt good to have someone to talk too, for both women. Sancia didn't think about the trouble she would face when they returned from their jaunt. She didn't care if Vesey hit her, hurt her. In this moment, she wanted to be nothing more than Sancia Mateja Marcellus, Siroc's rambunctious twin and free-spirited sister. She wanted to remember what it was like to laugh, a real laugh, and enjoy the company of a nice person.

Sancia looked up at her companion as they approached the café, the gears in her head turned. Womanish was the only way to describe her companion. She had noted it yesterday morning, again last night in the way Jacques had looked at 'The Legend's' son when 'he' pulled 'his' friends from the room, the voice and especially the walk. There was no way that 'Jacques' was a man. Sancia let go of Jacqueline's arm as the brunette opened the door for her. She nodded in thanks before returning to her thoughts. _I wonder if Sirocco knows._

It was late afternoon when Siroc's eyelids fluttered open; the warmth of the sun caressed his face. The tree's protective shadow had drifted, exposing his form to the evening light. The birds fluttered overhead, dancing in flight with other winged creatures in an endless game of chase. Their chirps were only hushed by the sound of rushing water as the river forced its way along.

Siroc stretched his arms, spreading his fingers. He looked around, slightly disoriented. It had been a long time since he had sat under this tree just watching the river rush past. It was a tranquil place, with lots of life and relaxing sounds. The smell of wildflowers and honey from a nearby hive drifted on the breeze and lingered long enough for Siroc to partake in the sweet scent.

The serious man had rested under this old, gnarled tree on his journey to Paris. Once there, he had managed to find work doing odd jobs and whatnot at the musketeer garrison after a few weeks of searching for anything to earn something for food. Duval had taken pity on the ragged, shoeless figure who had been too proud to beg, but not too proud to ask. Years of slavery had beaten him down, but had not completely crushed the thinker. It would be only a short time later that Duval would insist that he join the musketeers.

After his change in fortune, Siroc had frequented this place. He would sit, think and remember what and who he had left behind, and what the future would hold for him. Sometimes he just needed to escape the bustle of France's capital and the sneers of his fellow cadets who took exception to having someone of his 'class' at their side. His visits would become irregular over time, concentrating instead on inventing things in the laboratory Duval had given him and spending time with the only two cadets who didn't seem to judge him. He had earned the respect of many since that first year, and most had forgotten his meager beginnings.

The first time he had fallen asleep under this tree, he had cried until his quivering form had passed out. This time was different. He didn't weep for his sister as he had then, but formulated a plan that would set her free. His former master was always up to something shady when Siroc was younger. There were many things he could use to 'blackmail' the despicable tyrant; he just lacked the proof to force the issue. But Sancia, on the other hand, was in a unique position. She said she knew too much. She dressed as a lady instead of a slave. Both these things told the fugitive that she could expose Vesey far easier than the bits and pieces of Vesey's business that Siroc remembered. Perhaps she even knew where to find the proof they would need. This was a topic for their meeting tonight.

Siroc picked himself up, brushing off the blades of grass that were stuck to his black pants and white shirt. He looked up at the gold and purplish-red sky and swore as he realized what time it was. He hadn't slept the night before and had willed his eyes to stay open while he waited for morning to pass to mid-day. By mid-day it would be safe to return to the garrison. However, his fatigue had won and the over-tired genius had slept the day away. He only hoped that Jacques had come up with a plausible cover story or he was going to be in for it with the captain.

He had a feeling some kind of drama awaited him anyway.

Siroc slipped back into the garrison without being seen. The group in the common room had been too involved in whatever story one of the sergeants was going on about that they didn't notice him, and the rest of the garrison was either attending to their duties or off having their evening meal. It was perfect luck. He didn't care to explain where he had been or where he was about to go for that matter. The only reason he had bothered to come back to the garrison at all was to change. He still had on the same clothes he had worn the day before and needless to say, fresh attire was a must.

After quickly changing his wardrobe, splashing some water on his haggard face and running a comb through his messy hair in his room, he headed for his laboratory. He moved across the darkened room to light the lamp above the table. Instinctually the inventor had known where everything was in the room and despite the lack of equipment, the layout was the same. He lit the lamp and glanced down to see the bundle that Jacques had left him the night before. There was a slip of paper on top with his name on it. He pulled it out and unfolded the parchment, reading the beautifully scripted scrawl.

_Siroc,_

_I hope these things will help get your laboratory back to its former state._

_Jacques_

He untied the string and unfolded the cloth. He smiled when he saw the contents — more notebooks and herbs. He picked up the packages and unfolded the tops of each, trying to determine which ones his friend had purchased for him. To his surprise, each one contained a different herb, and all of them he used frequently. Jacques apparently had been snooping around to see what he had left in the clay containers that he kept on the shelf near the fireplace. The containers for these particular herbs had been broken. Shaking his head and making a 'humph' sound that was meant to be a laugh, he walked around the table and placed the thoughtful gift on the shelf next to the containers. At least now, when he replaced the containers, he would have something to put in them. _Jacques is a good friend_, he thought as he turned around to find a home for the notebooks as well. He stopped in his tracks and frowned.

Ramon and d'Artagnan stood by the door, both with their arms crossed in front of them. It was clear they were upset about something, and their demeanor reminded him of his father's look when he and Sancia would come in hours after they should have come home. Granted he had been eight, a child, the last time he saw that look. And at twenty, the look had lost its power and only served to annoy him. "Good evening," he finally said, moving back toward the table to pick up the books.

"So," Ramon started, stepping forwarding and standing just off to Siroc's side. D'Artagnan followed, leaning against the table, opposite of Ramon. "How was your day?"

Siroc frowned severely at Ramon. "Fine," he stated abruptly. "How was yours?" He rolled his eyes as he stepped around d'Artagnan's outstretched legs, heading for the shelf.

"Oh, perfect," d'Artagnan said sarcastically, exchanging looks with Ramon. "Where'ya been?"

"Where did Jacques tell you I was?" Siroc countered the question with his own as he set the books next to the others and to face the inquisitive pair. His friends had something on their minds, eating at them. The inventor would keep pretenses until they came out with it.

"Well, the curious thing is that Jacques said you were still ill, mi amigo," Ramon said, waving his arms as he spoke. "But you weren't in your room, in here or anywhere in the garrison for that matter," Ramon finished. He crossed his arms once more and tilted his head; his eyes narrowed and the expressive face wore an extreme frown.

"And we know you weren't out with Mademoiselle Marcellus," d'Artagnan added. He raised his eyebrows before continuing and locked his eyes with the tall blonde. "Now, did you say you know the mademoiselle well?"

Siroc took an audible breath. _So this is about Sancia_, he thought. Something told him he wasn't going to like the rest of the conversation. "Quite well, actually."

"So nothing about her would surprise you?" D'Artagnan gestured animatedly, much like Ramon had. He stood abruptly, feeling the table shift and not wanting to land on his backside for the second time that day if it did give out.

"Not in the least," Siroc shot back. He was getting tired of their little game. He glanced between the pair, scowling and waiting for them to voice the objections about her that he knew were coming.

"Siroc, if you want our opinion, it would be a good idea to avoid her, compadre," Ramon said, noting the genius' perturbed glare.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion on the subject, Ramon." Siroc moved from the shelves over to the fire place and grabbed the dark, feminine cloak that still hung there and threw it over his arm before turning to face them. "So please keep it to yourself," he added. It was clear they had something less than positive to say about his twin. He didn't want to hear it, nor would he stand for them to insult her.

"I apologize in advance, Siroc, if you find what I have to say distasteful, but I must say it. I would not be your friend if I didn't," Ramon nearly shouted, he was so insistent. Siroc crossed his arms, his chin dropping slightly and intensifying the fiery glare. "She is not the girl for you, amigo," Ramon added, determined not to let Siroc's unpleasant look deter him.

"Huh." The sound escaped Siroc as a short laugh. One side of his thin lips curved in amusement. Apparently neither of them was as astute as Jacques. "Is that all?"

"No, it isn't," d'Artagnan responded, backing Ramon up. They had agreed earlier that they would both discuss it with Siroc, neither man doing the majority of the talking. "We're not sure if you're aware of this, but she's married, Siroc."

Siroc really let a laugh ring out this time. "I assure you both, you are mistaken." His body jounced lightly as he spoke.

"And I assure you that we are not," d'Artagnan interjected. This was a serious matter and Siroc was laughing at them. "She introduced herself today as Madam Vesey, not Mademoiselle Marcellus."

"Vesey!" Siroc's face drained of all color. The thought was horrifying. His sister married to that monster. There was no way. She was a slave, beneath him. He always treated his slaves as such. "You're, you're mistaken," he stuttered. "It's just, it's just not possible." Siroc pinched the bridge of his nose and continued to ramble about the improbability of the situation.

The looks on Siroc's best friends' faces softened. Siroc was clearly disturbed by the revelation. Ramon and d'Artagnan loved him like a brother and didn't want to see him hurt. They knew they risked causing him pain by revealing the truth, but they had decided that verity now would be easier than what would happen in the long run. "We didn't want to be the bearers of bad news, Siroc. But thought it would be better if you knew before you got too attached to her," d'Artagnan finally said, trying to make it clear that their intentions were honorable in this situation.

Siroc's hand dropped from his face and he looked up. "Attached to her?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "You have no idea what is best for me, d'Artagnan. You know nothing of our situation," Siroc practically shouted. He wasn't really angry with them. But he was reeling over this new information. He still fought the notion that Sancia would ever agree to marry him. She may be a slave but … no, it just couldn't be true. He wouldn't accept it. Her current status was because he had forced it on her. She had too much pride, even for a slave, to be willing to be 'with' him.

"Our situation?!" Ramon spat back. "Mi amigo, I think you need to calm down and think about this."

Siroc bit his lip, his hands balled. "She would never marry HIM," he declared, saying the last word as if it was foul. He barely controlled the feelings of anguish and anger that were threatening to overtake him. He had to leave now before he exploded on them. Things would be so much easier if he just told them the truth, but he couldn't bring himself to discuss that part of his life either. This was a family matter, a matter to address with his other half. Without so much as another word, the inventor pushed past his friends.

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan asked, feeling guilty about the conversation's outcome. After all, they were only trying to help, to protect him.

Siroc left his friends standing in his wake without answering.


	11. Chapter 11

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Eleven: Truths**

No one paid heed to the cloaked woman standing on the bridge, watching the Seine rush past. Nobody saw the tears careening down her slightly flushed cheeks and adding to the bi-way below. Her body did not quiver nor did she make a sound. That morning had been a disaster. Instead of digging for information, she had made a mess of things. Her master didn't want to hear excuses or about insults. He wanted results. He wanted anything he could use against the musketeers should they stumble on her master's 'side operation.'

Sancia could feel the welts on her back, her arms and legs. If she had thought her body ached that morning, this evening's pain trumped it. He had yelled at first, ignoring her apologizes and pleas, but then he snapped. The slave had lifted her eyes just in time to see his fist flying forwarded. She felt the impact and remembered the rainbow of colors that clouded her vision. The rest was hazy, and Sancia wasn't even sure what he had been beating her with that left such thick, uniform welts. Her last memory was her back smashing into the wall. She had finally awakened only a few hours earlier, her neck sore from the awkward position she had been slumped in. Her master had left her where she had fallen. Sancia believed the only thing that had saved her was that Vesey never did anything to her that would leave scars. He didn't want his perfect prize damaged. She wouldn't be able to 'get close' to his adversaries if she were marred; scars would betray her station.

However, this time Vesey had done something he hadn't done since she was ten. She had hit him then after he threw Siroc across the room, and he had returned the weak little smacks with a closed-fist blow of his own across her face. There was a purple-blue bruise on her left cheek by her eye now. It was puffy and swelling. Common sense was telling her to put something on it before it swelled shut, but her stubbornness kept her feet planted. It would serve Vesey right not to be able to utilize her 'assets' and besides, she was waiting for the one person who made her complete.

She feared Siroc would not come. The last rays of daylight had slipped away an hour before, and he still hadn't arrived. He could be angry with her, although she always had to push him hard to provoke that emotion. His friends would have told him about that morning, about her appalling and unladylike behavior, and about 'Madam Vesey.' They did not like her; it was seemly obvious. But she did admire their dedication to her brother. She felt better knowing he had friends that would do anything for him, even if she didn't much like them.

'Jacques' was an exception. She had enjoyed his company. He had made her laugh until she thought she would cry. Tales of flying contraptions and of weapon detectors had filled their short time at the café. The stories Jacques had shared were priceless. Sancia could picture every expression from the tilt of his head to the exasperated look he had when he was speaking to someone who didn't understand. Her master's favorite henchman had rudely interrupted their delicious moments, and Sancia had sweet-talked 'Jacques' into staying his blade when the crude man had yanked her from her seat. But she would not exchange the short time she spent with Jacques Leponte for anything. Although, Sancia was more certain then ever that 'he' was actually a 'she', and perhaps 'she' would be the voice of reason if Siroc really was angry with her.

"Sancia?" Siroc stood just off the bridge. He could not see her face, but he recognized his cloak. He had several things on his mind that he desperately needed to say to her, but he was still bothered by what Ramon and d'Artagnan had revealed. Regardless of what they had heard, they were mistaken. _The union is highly improbable_. He kept repeating that in his head, but his hands still would not stop shaking. He had looked over his shoulder several times to make sure his noisy, although well-meaning brothers-in-arms weren't following him either. The last thing he needed was them interrupting an extremely private conversation. He was going to ask her about it, and try to understand whatever she had to say. After all, he had been the one person Sancia sought when she needed love and understanding. He was her rock. He inhaled, holding his breath for a moment before expelling it. Siroc stepped onto the bridge, moving forward until he could smell her lavender soap.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," she said wistfully. Sancia was a little afraid to look at him. She knew his protective instincts would immediately kick in.

Siroc sat down on the stone that lined the edges of the bridge, and looked up at his twin's shadowed face. He draped the cloak he had been carrying — the cloak she had left in his laboratory the night before — across his legs. "Why wouldn't I come, San?" he questioned, slightly puzzled. He reached for her right hand with his left, taking her fingers and squeezing gently.

"I thought you might be upset with me," she told him as she brought up her left hand and wiped her tear stained face.

Realizing she was crying, Siroc stood up, the cloak on his lap sliding off onto the road, and pulled her to him before she could protest. Her hood fell back as he wrapped his arms around her and inhaled her sweet scent. "Because you are now Madam Vesey?" he asked her. He hated to see her cry; it tore at his heart every time. "You know I am the last person that would judge you — even if the thought is appalling."

Sancia bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out as they embraced. Pain coursed her body from her fresh wounds. She brought her sore arms up and wrapped them around his warm torso. She leaned her head against his chest, inhaling the aroma of his freshly laundered shirt. "I'm not really married, 'Roc. I swear it," she said, her voice muffled in his shirt. "It's not what you think."

He pulled away slightly, and for the first time since he left the garrison, he stopped shaking. Relief flooded his body. He looked down at his sister, who stared at the ground, and ran his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, preparing to take her hands. When his slightly callused hands touched her skin, he stopped. His body stiffened as his fingers traced the thick welts crisscrossing her delicate limbs. "San," he said. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the part in her hair at the top of her head. "Look at me," he said, his voice pleading.

Sancia stiffened as his fingers gently caressed the puffy red and blue marks. She heard his words, but could not look up into his eyes. He always did uncharacteristic, irrational things when it came to her. She didn't want this to be one of those few occasions he lost his head.

"Sancia, look at me." This time his voice was commanding. His hand moved to her chin and lifted until he could see her weary face. Siroc inhaled sharply. Even in the dark, he could see the mark that scathed her beauty. "I'm going to kill him," he said breathlessly, shocked at the bruise. He turned her head from side to side, looking for additional marks.

"No," she shot back quickly but gently. "It was my own fault, Sirocco. I — I —" she looked back down. She did blame herself, for that was the effect abuse had on the abused. "I didn't do what I was told and on top of it, my behavior was completely appalling."

"Your fault," he sputtered in disbelief. "No man has the right to hit a woman, to strike anyone — slave or not!" He brought his hand up from her chin and placed it gently on her bruised check, stroking her face with his thumb.

She ignored his correction. He was right. He usually was, and deep down she knew she believed the same. But beliefs and reality are two very different things in the life of a slave. The master had all the rights, the slave none. Sancia changed the subject, thinking it better to draw his attention away from the dark reminder of the things she faced everyday. "Your friend Jacques is very nice," she stated, looking back down, relaxing her head against his hand, and enjoying his gentle, comforting touch. "He was the only one that was nice to me today."

Siroc dropped his arms back to his side. He picked up her cloak, throwing it over his right arm before gesturing for them to walk. She moved forward, her brother at her side. She didn't know where they were going, but a stroll was just what she needed to clear the cobwebs. Siroc, on the other hand, knew exactly where he was taking her, back to the garrison to treat the nasty welts and bruises that marred her. "What do you mean?" he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders. She wrapped her arm around his waist.

"Your friend, Ramon, insulted me," she told him, leaving out her own behavior. She was curious to see how much they had told him.

"That doesn't sound like him. He and d'Artagnan are usually the first to defend a lady." Siroc told her. He had a feeling she wasn't exaggerating though, especially after the confrontation in the laboratory.

"He called me 'tripe', Sirocco," she informed him, her tone a bit bitter. Her forehead wrinkled and she pursed her lips. Tripe wasn't really that bad of an insult, not in the grand scheme of things, but it was still an insult, one Sancia didn't care for. She felt worthless most of the time anyway, but she hid it behind smiles, sarcasm and a lot of finesse — not to mention behind her explosive personality when she was provoked.

He smiled although he still was having a hard time believing that Ramon would say such a thing to someone the inventor cared about so much. He also knew the woman beside him, and there was more to this story than she was letting on. "And how did you respond?" he asked, hoping her answer wouldn't make him regret his shortness with his friends.

"I pulled a blade on him," she said stoically and waited for him to chastise her for such behavior.

Siroc started laughing as he visualized the sight of his tiny sister holding a blade to his lanky friend. He shook his head. "Will you ever act like a lady?" he asked her. It was a rhetorical question because he knew that she would never be as ladylike as most. But he loved her the way she was.

"I'll act like a lady, 'Roc, if you do," she said, throwing him a grin as they rounded a corner.

The musketeer's cheeks flushed at her playful reminder of a very embarrassing moment. They scene replayed itself in his mind. They had been five at the time and Sancia was in her room, in trouble for what their mother called unsuitable behavior for a little girl. Siroc had sneaked into her quarters and promptly told his twin that she needed to act like a lady because he was bored; he wanted someone to play with. Her response was a plain and simple: 'I don't know how.' As serious as could be, Siroc did his best impression of how a lady should act. The inventor had missed the sarcasm in her declaration. Sancia had fallen off her bed she had been laughing so hard, tears streaming her face. She loved to privately tease him about his impersonation. "If you say a word, Sancia, so help me I'll…"

The slave's body rocked with laughter. "I wouldn't dream of embarrassing you," she said innocently, picturing his attempt at a feminine walk that had finally cracked the smile she had been trying to hide then. Sancia glanced at the buildings around her, still laughing until it dawned on her that she knew the buildings. The edges of her mouth dropped. "Where are we going?" she asked sharply. They were on the street that led to the garrison.

"Back to the musketeer garrison, to my laboratory," he told her as if the destination was logical and not unexpected.

Sancia stopped abruptly; her brother's arm released her as she did. "I don't think that's wise, Sirocco. Not after this morning. Your friends hate me!" Her eyes were wide. But there was more to her fear than just the men her sibling called friends. Much had happened that day.

He slipped his arm back around her and squeezed gently, afraid to hurt her with his touch. "And that is my fault, San. I…I wanted to keep my past from them. I've never told anyone about our parents, about our master," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry. I should have told them; it would have spared us both some arguments."

The pair resumed walking up the lantern-lit street. She did not argue because he would protect her from the cads he called friends and from anything else that might come. Sancia had an eerie feeling that she should not go. She had not told him about the other events of the day, and the fact that she was officially marked as a runaway. Her master's men were no doubt looking for her even now. Despite the looming anxiety, she relaxed into Siroc's warm side and reached up, pulling his left arm tighter around her. He kissed the top of her head, gingerly, thankful that they were together. The conversation about freeing her would hold for a while.

Jacqueline sat in the common room, pulling apart a roll before dipping it in the stew that sat on the table in front of her. She had just returned from patrol and was now enjoying something to eat. Her friends had already had their evening meal but the looks on their faces told her something happened while she was scouring the Parisian roads for criminals.

D'Artagnan sat next to her, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. He appeared to be almost pouting. Ramon slouched across the table from her. His chin rested in his hands and he looked positively befuddled. "Has Siroc come back?" she asked, shoving a piece of the bread in her mouth.

The usually talkative Spaniard shook his head yes, growling and mumbling in his native tongue. D'Artagnan brought himself forward and laid his head across his folded arms on the table. "Oh, yes," he declared.

One corner of Jacqueline's mouth curved up. _Serves you both right_, she thought. She could guess the outcome of the conversation that they had been going on and on about having with Siroc. "I take it, it didn't go well," she said complacently.

"Well, you're rather smug about it, Jacques," d'Artagnan shot, irritated. He turned his head to look at her. He usually loved her face and the animated expressions that came across it, especially when they argued. But tonight, she looked almost satisfied that Siroc had brushed off his friends' concerns like he usually brushed off women for his inventions.

"I told you two to leave it alone. But you didn't want to hear it." She took another bite of her meal, chewing before continuing. "Did you ever stop to think that there actually are things that are none of your businesses?"

Ramon growled. "You're one to talk. You always stick your nose where it doesn't belong." He jabbed at her with his finger as he narrowed his dark eyes. "I'm actually surprised you stopped meddling." Ramon raised his eyebrows and let them fall again quickly, before bringing his hand back to support his chin.

She hadn't really stopped 'meddling', as Ramon put it. Jacqueline was just keeping her word. There was something going on that she hadn't quite put her finger on. Siroc's behavior at the café, his sister's strange behavior, the sandy-haired man treating Sancia so roughly, the slave auction, all of it was tied together; she just hadn't figured it out yet.

"I get the distinct impression you know something we don't," d'Artagnan accused. His face contorted to his 'knowing' look. The one he gave Jacqueline when he knew something was going on and she didn't want to share. It usually took some prodding and harassment, but he knew how to get it out of her if she was keeping something from him.

"And what would that be, d'Artagnan?" She grinned innocently, before spooning some of the stew into her mouth.

"If we knew, we wouldn't be asking, compadre," Ramon answered for d'Artagnan. He nabbed a roll off her plate, smiling innocently as her eyes flashed with disapproval.

"Why don't you ask Siroc, Ramon? After all, it's his life. He'll share what he wants when he wants," she chastised her friend even though she was the last person who should be chastising someone for butting in.

"Ah ha! So, he is hiding something!" Ramon almost jumped up. Jacqueline dropped her spoon mid-motion, splashing some of the contents onto the table. Some of it hit d'Artagnan in the face, but he quickly wiped it off while glaring at Ramon for such an exuberant outburst.

"Nothing that's really your business, Ramon," the inventor's somber voice interceded before Jacqueline could respond to his energetic outburst. He had planned on telling them, had they walked in on him 'fixing up' Sancia. However, he was rather annoyed with them again, having walked in on his friends having a conversation about him. All three friends stared at him sheepishly.

Sancia stood behind him, the hood of her twin's cloaked masked her face. Seeing her in his cloak was rather amusing to Jacqueline. She hadn't realized how small Sancia was until she saw her in the cloth that fit her brother perfectly but Sancia swam in. The serious man gestured toward the hall that led to his lab and followed Sancia to his sanctuary before they could respond.

Once inside, Siroc shut the door but did not latch it. The lamp in the middle of the room still burned brightly. He stood for a moment, watching Sancia wander the room and looking at the shelves and books. After a few moments, Siroc went straight for the containers that held his herb collection, tossing her cloak across the table as he passed it. He was looking for a specific herb, and coincidently, it was one that Jacques had purchased for him. He picked up a small package, opening it to make sure he had grabbed the right one. The leaves of the calendula plant (marigold) had a pungent scent, and would reduce the swelling of Sancia's bruises. "Have a seat, San. I need to get some water."

"What for?" she asked, a little curious as to what he was holding. "What are you up too, 'Roc?" She pulled the cloak off and draped it across the table before moving toward her brother and the hearth. She preferred to sit near the warmth.

"It's for making a poultice with the calendula. It'll help with the swelling," he informed her, setting the envelope on the rickety table before turning to face her.

"You don't need to do that, Sirocco," she said, rolling her eyes, but enjoying her brother's attention regardless.

"I know that but I…" Siroc didn't finish the sentence. The squeak of the door and the echoing sounds of several loud musketeers barreling in the room cut him off. He growled lowly, just quiet enough that only he heard it. But if they were going to intrude, he was going to put them to work. A mischievous smile spread across his face. He picked up the kettle that hung on a hook off to the side of the fireplace and tossed it underhanded at them. Ramon caught it just before it struck him. "If you three insist on intruding, you get to help," Siroc announced.

"And what am I suppose to do with this?" Ramon inquired, slightly angered by the fact he had almost been hit with the iron cookware.

"It's a kettle Ramon; what usually goes in it?" Siroc asked sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Ramon thrust the pot into Jacqueline's hands. She stood just behind him with d'Artagnan at her side. She shook her head, but got the gist of the gesture without him saying a word. She was going for the water. She hesitated for a moment, before slipping out the door. Jacqueline just hoped they behaved themselves.

Ramon and d'Artagnan fanned out, each going the opposite direction. They were attempting to flank Siroc, the way they always did when they wanted something and he was reluctant to give in. They had done it the first day and the inventor was positive this wouldn't be the last time. He glanced down at his sister. She stared intently in the fire, trying to hide her face, he guessed. Protectively, he positioned himself in front of her, blocking their view. She could hide her face the way she was sitting, but the bruises on her bare arms were still noticeable. He was very tempted to let them see what Vesey had done to her. At least then they would understand.

His friends rounded the backside of the table until they stood in front of him. Ramon narrowed his eyes, still angry about having the kettle chucked at him. The amused look on Siroc's face wasn't helping temper his mood either. He had a queer little half smirk with his head tilted slightly to the side and arms crossed in front of him, hands tucked. "And what exactly are we helping with?" Ramon asked, taking a stance that mirrored Siroc's. Only his eyes had fire in them instead of the twinkle of humor that radiated from the blonde's.

"I'm making a poultice," he stated, waving his hand for them to move. The pair split and he grabbed the package off the table, showing his friends the herbs.

D'Artagnan stepped back and situated himself on the table. "What for?" he asked curiously as he glanced back and forth between Siroc and the woman he seemed to be shielding. "You look fine to me."

Finding himself as curious as d'Artagnan, Ramon relaxed a little and leaned back against the table. Siroc stepped aside and looked down at his sister. "Sancia," he said. Torn between protecting his privacy, her privacy and his relationship with his friends, the quiet, serious man was about to find a happy medium.

"It's none of their business," she said quietly, without taking her eyes from the small dancing flames. She had been uncomfortable since they came in the room. As bruised and battered as she was, having the two men she had quarreled with recently so close to her made her feel vulnerable. She hated feeling that way.

"San." Siroc's voice dropped into a whisper. "Trust me. They are my friends after all." He stopped, taking a deep breath and biting the inside of his lower lip as he considered his next words. His eyes narrowed. "Besides, this misunderstanding between the three of you is going to end right now. It's giving me headache."

"Then drink some chamomile tea," she retorted. She shifted slightly, trying to hide a little better.

Jacqueline came back in just in time to hear Sancia's retort. "Being temperamental again?" she asked to no one in particular as she handed Siroc the full kettle. Sancia's eyes narrowed.

"Temperamental? I could think of another word," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.

Jacqueline and Siroc both glared at him as Sancia turned her head to add her own fiery look to the fray. Her blonde curls whipped through the air as she moved. She opened her mouth to defend herself, but before the words could cross her lips, she heard the Spaniard swear.

"Dios mio!"

Captain Duval sat hunched over his desk, going over the next day's assignments. He muttered under his breath. He had waited to give out the 'duty' assignments for the morning. Something didn't seem right about the Cardinal asking specifically for d'Artagnan, Ramon, Siroc and Jacques. They always thwarted his schemes. The aging musketeer couldn't help but feel that guard duty was just a convenient way to keep them out of the way for the day. He had met with the young king earlier that evening, arguing that this type of duty was suitable for new recruits and that he needed them on other, more important assignments. But as usual, the young king had fussed and made it clear that musketeers were needed where the king said they were needed, and he wanted them keeping order.

In the last day, most available rooms around the Place des Vosges were occupied, and the streets were busier than Duval had seen in a long time. For the wealthy that came to sell and purchase, it was a festive atmosphere. For those that lived in Paris and valued the lives that these people were demeaning, it was chaos. Disdain didn't quite cover the feelings the captain had about the entire thing. What made the auction even more distasteful was that the grand place that once hosted the tournaments celebrating Louis the XIII's wedding to Anne of Austria was going to be marked forever. Duval would never be able to look at the square in the same way again.

"Captain Duval," a man's shrill voice said.

Duval looked up at the finely dressed man that stood in his doorway. If it wasn't for his placid face and hair too dark for his complexion, he would have been an attractive man. Of course, a woman would have to ignore his lack of compassion or regard for any other living thing. The musketeer couldn't fathom why someone as young and lovely as Sancia Vesey would marry this man, who now stood flanked by two equally overly dressed males with the same lack of humanity. "Monsieur Vesey, can I do something for you?" Duval barely hid his contempt.

"As your musketeers are charged with preventing theft, I require assistance," he said coldly. He had no more love for this man then Duval had for him.

"With what, sir? Speak plain for I am busy," Duval shot back as he resumed his work on the next day's assignments.

"Finding a runaway, Captain," he stated, stiffening himself.

"How is finding a runaway by any means a part of the duty the king has asked us to perform?"

"You are charged with protecting my property and the property of the other owners," he reminded, talking a breath and considering the man who was now looking back at him with a look that would have sent chills through any other person. "She is my property." Vesey enunciated each word, driving his point home.

Duval stood up abruptly, his chair falling over behind him. "As you wish, Monsieur," he said. His voice was cold but sarcastic. He wanted nothing more than to toss this pompous mule out into the street, but his duty forbade it. The three men in the door split as Duval's commanding form moved through.

The captain needed to round-up his musketeers for their 'duty', and he hoped they would be where they usually were — in Siroc's laboratory.

"That smells," Sancia protested as Siroc put the poultice on her cheek. She wrinkled her nose, repulsed.

"Stop complaining, San. It'll make the swelling go down," Siroc argued, slightly exasperated. "Now hold it; I'm not going to sit like this all night."

She replaced his hand with her own and watched him as he slowly rose from the squatting position he had been in. All four musketeers' eyes were on her. It was uncomfortable to have them watching her, but at least they had stopped asking questions after they saw her face. Their reaction was much the same as walking out of the darkness into the light, after spending a lifetime in the dark, and not being able to believe that the light really existed. She could tell they still had questions, but other than an occasional ramble in Spanish from Ramon, who now sat on the table next to d'Artagnan, they had been silent while Siroc worked. "Why couldn't you have used malva? It at least smells better. Besides, you decoct calendula — you make a poultice with malva."

Siroc closed his eyes and growled lowly. He shook his head before opening his eyes again. She was exasperating sometimes. "Because I don't have malva, and my laboratory is a little—" he paused, trying to find the right word "—lacking lately."

She eyed her brother, curiously, and said the first sarcastic thing she could think of. "What did you do? Blow the place up!" She laughed lightly, but the grin slipped from her face when she saw her brother stiffen, and Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline snorted with laughter around her. Her face was as serious as Siroc's was. Sancia gasped. "Oh heavens! You did!" But her humorless expression lasted mere seconds after she breathed her last word.

The sound that followed her decree was perfectly musical. It wasn't the coy, light giggle or the tittered sound of a woman bound in slavery. It was the sweet sound that Siroc remembered from their youth. The one that caused images of the little girl in a light green dress standing over him with her arms wrapped around her chest and tears streaming down her face to flash in his mind. It was the one that rang out when they had shared a private joke. Siroc joined the choric sound with his own quiet laugh, feeling more relaxed then he had in days.

Their amusement would end there. D'Artagnan and Ramon sat shaking the repaired furniture with their equally loud, full-bodied laughs. The sound of the quintet drowned out its warning creek. In the next second, the make-shift supports gave and their bodies flailed as they crashed to the floor with the table. The noise could be heard throughout the entire garrison. A new wave of laughter overtook the other three, as they watched the sprawled out figures struggling to get up.

Both musketeers felt absolutely stupid. Siroc had warned them, and they hadn't listened. Ramon and d'Artagnan managed to get to their feet, rubbing various parts of their bodies that had impacted with the floor and each other. They were never going to live this down, and neither could speak from the shock.

The happiness from their comedic moment was short-lived.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Before Duval could even announce their presence to the roaring musketeers, Vesey's glacial voice rang out. The slave owner hadn't expected to find his property in the very place he sought assistance. What made it all that more sweet, the search ending before it began, was seeing another piece of property that he had given up hope of ever finding. His face showed a countenance of delight. Duval glanced over his shoulder at the three men, who were all wearing sinister grins.

The four figures jumped at the sound, their laughter immediately silenced. Every muscle in the inventor's body stiffened; his face turned a deathly white. Sancia's hand slipped into his as she stood, but he could not grasp hers; his arms hung limply by his side. The only movement he managed was to glance over to the smaller table in the corner, where his blade sat.

Ramon and d'Artagnan took a protective stance in front of Sancia. Although they hadn't been told who had caused the damage to the lady's face, they had no doubt that this oil-slick of a man had been the dealer. "Captain," d'Artagnan greeted, trying to pretend that everything was as it should be, despite the air of tension that was almost tangible.

"Monsieur Vesey has asked for assistance in reclaiming some property," Duval said. He narrowed his eyes at Sancia's master, realizing who the property was that Vesey was seeking. "Madam Vesey, I believe your husband is looking for you." Duval turned back around, noting the death-vice grip she now had on Siroc's arm. He felt a wave of anger when he saw her face, but quickly suppressed it. Although he despised Vesey and any man who would hurt a lady, the reaction was more personal than protective. A long forgotten memory of Raissa Marcellus dancing resurfaced, and for the second time that day he felt a pang of loss. There was something more to Madam Vesey. It could be the only reason the sight of her brought up the memories he kept locked away.

Vesey shoved past Duval, glaring at the frightened man Sancia clung to. "Come looking for one and find another." His henchman shadowed their boss.

Captain Duval poked his cane into Vesey's back, not hard enough to hurt the despicable man but enough to get his attention. "And what, sir, do you mean by that?" He moved forward, standing between Vesey and the two figures clinging together. Siroc's companions glanced from the two blondes to the older men sizing each other up.

"That man," Vesey half-yelled, slightly fuming that the musketeer would dare get in his way. His arm shot out, pointing at the inventor. "He is my property and I demand he be returned to me as well!"

Had Siroc eaten that day, he would have vomited right then. The welted scars on his back burned and the walls seemed to close in. He looked to his blade again, preparing to go for his weapon if they came anywhere near him or his sister. "That man is a musketeer!" Duval's voice boomed, bringing the genius' attention from his blade to his captain. "Whatever claim you have on him was forfeited the day he put on that uniform!" he said an octave below his powerful yell.

Vesey stepped up, putting his face in Duval's, eyes narrowed, fist balled tightly. "I will have my property," he insisted, attempting to size up the captain.

Duval did not shrink back. In fact, Vesey's attempt only added to the fire coursing through his own veins. "The lady, yes. My musketeer, no!" At the captain's words, Vesey's men began to move forward, closing in on the five people. The sound of sliding metal started. "Musketeers, hold!"

"But, Capitanee!" Ramon protested, his blade half-drawn. Although still in the dark about the fair woman's relationship with Siroc, the dark musketeer wasn't about to abandon any female to these men.

"I said hold. I will personally throw the first of you to draw in the Bastille," he said, although he wouldn't really. He wanted to pull his own blade on the arrogant man in front of him.

Vesey's men flanked Sancia and Siroc. The musketeers had moved aside, obeying their captain, but not one of them was happy about it. Sancia let go of Siroc's arm. She didn't want to go back, but she wasn't going to let her brother fight it out either. He was safe as a musketeer, protected from ever returning to the horrible life of a slave. It satisfied her that Vesey could never claim him.

The one closest to them yanked on the shorter twin's arm as she stepped forward, accepting her fate for the second time in her life. Sancia yelled as the man tugged on her arm. It was the last straw Siroc could take in the extremely intense situation. He went for his blade, drew it out completely and placed it to the man's throat before anyone could take a breath.

"I said hold!" Duval spun around when he heard the unmistakable sound. "Siroc, lower the blade," he ordered.

The sandy-haired goon let go of Sancia as the blade pressed against his throat, scratching him. Her heart skipped over the thought of her brother taking her freedom by force, but it was quickly replaced by an overwhelming fear that Captain Duval would keep his threat. She couldn't let that happen. "Sirocco! Stop it!" she pleaded. All eyes in the room darted back and forth between the pair.

"What?" he breathed. Tears were forming in her eyes and he could see her body shaking with fear. He couldn't understand why she was telling him to let these men take her. Did she want to go back?

"I said, stop it!" Her voice cracked. She licked her lips, feeling the tears forming in her eyes. She couldn't let him do this, not after all she had given up for him. "I didn't give up my freedom for you so that you could throw yours away!" She could barely force the words out.

His arm relaxed slightly. His placid face scrunching with confusion. "San?" he choked out. An eerie feeling crept over him that he knew exactly what she meant. But it couldn't be. She wouldn't have done it.

She could see the agony on his face and his friends' shocked expression at his rash behavior as they looked between the siblings. She never thought she'd see him again, let alone tell him that she had given up herself so that he could get away. He would have never left the hillside if she hadn't let herself slide back down. "I didn't slip, Sirocco; I let go," she whispered, moving herself within an inch of her brother and placing her hand on his now shaking sword arm.

He lowered the blade, fighting back tears. His hazel eyes bore into hers, searching for the truth. He couldn't have heard her correctly. Why would she do such a thing? They had promised. She had sworn. The world seemed to spin around him. There was no mistaking the truth he found on her pained face. For the first time in his life, he was truly angry with her because she had given up after they both swore the night they escaped that they would both make it or neither would. "Why?" he demanded through clenched teeth. She had lied to him, broken her word, and left him alone.

At the same time, two tears rolled down both of her cheeks. She swallowed hard. There was only one reason she did anything regarding him. "You're my brother. I would give you the stars if I could." Her chin started to quiver and she backed away. It was best if the scene didn't continue. She moved quickly to her master, stopping briefly and lowering her eyes submissively. His men flanked her, each taking her by an arm.

"This isn't over, Duval," Vesey spat before storming from the room with his henchman and slave at his heels.

As the quartet left Sirocco Marcellus' sanctuary, they took with them a piece of his soul.


	12. Chapter 12

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twelve: Turning Inward**

Time flows around us and change comes slowly. Only by looking back can the effects be seen, and how it changes people so dear. Over time, guilt turns to anger, which eats at the core. Bitterness follows as the soul rots away, leaving a shell of a person, a ghost of the person's former self. Siroc was at anger. His guilt for leaving her behind slipped away, and was replaced by a heated emotion that he couldn't identify, much less express. He was furious with her for letting go and hated himself for just now realizing her sacrifice. She dared to give him the world — no the stars — and he could only repay the debt by watching her again be dragged away.

Everything moved in slow motion, as if time's hands were winding down. Sancia standing before him, then slipping away as Vesey's henchmen roughly pulled her from him. His twin's expression revealed her anguish. The image of tears in her eyes was seared in his memory, replaying a thousand times in only seconds. She whispered words over her shoulder in another language, mouthed not in French but Italian. It was the language his mother had always used to declare her affection for her children and sang in. Language had been a thing of beauty to Raissa, and Italian had been her favorite treasure, making the words 'ti amo — I love you' all that more exquisite. Those were the words Sancia whispered. For a moment, it was his mother's voice Siroc heard, not Sancia's, as if their mother was calling out from the afterlife. His breath caught in his throat, silencing any sound he wished to make. Despite his sister's plea for him to stay, he wanted nothing more than to rush out and take her place.

But it was too late. The door closed.

The sound of the hinges as the door returned to its rested state barely registered with his companions, but to Siroc it was like a cannon exploding in his head. But the boom could not cover the sound of his heart splintering into a million pieces for the second time in his life. What would they do to her? What could he do to stop them? He could leave, with her by his side, running into the darkness like another night so long ago. This wasn't over, not while he still drew breath. He would force the doors open that separated them. They would be free together or die together as slaves. Either way, the remaining members of a once noble family would be together. One way or another, he was getting her tonight.

"What part of that order sounded like a suggestion, private?!" Duval's voice boomed, drawing the tormented inventor from his last revelry to the blazing eyes of his captain.

Siroc stiffened, as did his friends, as the tip-tap of Duval's cane echoed as he moved quickly around the fallen table, putting his face in the disobedient cadet's. The blonde swallowed hard, knowing full well he was in for it. "No part, sir," he said coolly, but not disrespectfully. His right hand was still tensed around the hilt of his blade, and the surge of emotion coursing through his veins controlled him, instead of him controlling them.

"Then give me one reason I shouldn't toss you in the Bastille for the next month!" Duval growled, ignoring Siroc's icy tone. If it were his sister, he would have done the same without hesitation. He could see the depth of emotion in the younger man's eyes. Unbridled emotion played Siroc like a puppet, instead of the inventor being the puppet master. Duval knew the feeling. These four were by far his favorite, but he had his limits and willful disobedience was one of them.

"I don't have one, sir," Siroc admitted honestly, never taking his eyes from Duval's. With each second that passed, he felt a fire blazing up from within. It started in his fingers, the ones wrapped around the hilt, and spread up his arm, through his shoulders, spider-webbing until he could feel it in his toes. It screamed of urgency, the need to move, but until he was alone, Siroc had no way to act.

Duval took a deep breath; he wasn't going lock him up and forget about him. He wanted him somewhere safe, somewhere he could keep an eye on him and protect him until Maurice Vesey left Paris. Sancia — well, the captain would think of something to help resolve that for Siroc. The curious inventor was like a son to him, and this new revolution of his connection to the young woman who looked like his friend's wife, made him even more suspicious of her origins and now Siroc's. But that was a topic for a later conversation. A conversation he was sure would only reopen the wounds that formed over the loss of his friend.

"Well, then," Duval started, narrowing his eyes a little more and taking another calming breath. "Until further notice, you are confined to the garrison." Siroc opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it again. "And that is an order I suggest you follow, Private. Or so help me, I won't be as lenient next time!" Instead of answering, the inventor only nodded his head, seeming to accept his fate. Duval drew his attention back to the three onlookers, who stood just as rigidly as Siroc. It was the same attentive stance they always took when he reprimanded them. "You three, my office now," he ordered, then quickly made his way out the door.

As soon as Duval was out, the blonde's friends relaxed notably. "Your sister?" d'Artagnan asked, although already well aware of the answer.

"You could have told us, amigo," Ramon chimed quickly after d'Artagnan finished speaking.

Siroc threw his blade on the small table where it had been. His anger dually noted by his companions. "Get out!" he shot at his friends. "Please, just…go!" he finished, his voice a little softer. He needed them out before he could act. This was one occasion in which it was better if he was alone.

Knowing that he was upset and definitely not in the mood to continue the subject, Ramon and d'Artagnan could only shake their heads and comply with the captain's orders and Siroc's desire to leave the nights events a dead subject — for now. Jacqueline did not move when they did though. She watched her fuming friend, knowing well enough that if it were Gerard, she wouldn't hesitate to act. She hadn't hesitated to act and through that path had found her dreams. A bad feeling crept over her. Was it wise to leave him alone? She didn't think so, but the captain was waiting and she had to trust that her usually rational friend would maintain the cool head he was known for. "The captain will fix this, Siroc; I'm sure of it," she offered reassuringly, before falling behind her other two friends. All three took a look over their shoulders at the inventor, each praying he'd be here when they returned — each praying for his sake that they would be able to save his sister.

The door shut again.

Jacques' words echoed in his mind, but despite them he quickly moved, slinging the baldric over his head and sheathing his blade. It looked out of place cutting across his chest with only a linen shirt on. He usually only wore it when in uniform. But tonight he wasn't a musketeer. He was Sirocco Donatien Marcellus — a Marcellus again — and he was going to fight for his twin. Her sacrifice for him was one that told of her love for him. Now, it was his turn to give her the stars.

He looked over at his shelves, the books and herbs. He would miss this place, but there would be no coming back. Once through the portal that would lead him out of the garrison, he would be transported to a different world, one in which the musketeers couldn't protect him. Knowing the truth, he paused for a moment, never doubting what he was about to do, but decided to grab one more thing: his father's notebook. After all, it belonged with the Marcellus family.

He made his way to the door, his father's book tucked into the top of his pants, taking one last glance at his sacred space. He bit his lip and tried to fight back the tears. He had made a home here, a life, but there was something he valued more. His family, his sister was worth more than dreams.

Ramon, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline filed into Duval's office. He stared out the small window at the far side of the room into the darkness, his arms locked behind his back. He was clearly deep in thought. "Shut the door," he said, without looking at the cadets. Jacqueline, who was closest to the door, did just that. He turned around, releasing his arms, to face them. The anger he appeared to have in the laboratory had melted away. "I have an assignment for you three. It was supposed to be for all four of you," he paused, sighing. "Given the circumstances though, I will be assigning someone else with you." He watched them, silently waiting for him to continue with their new order. "You three will serve as guards at the slave auction tomorrow, to prevent theft and — I pray that it doesn't come to this — escape."

The order was met with three identical looks of disgust. "Given the circumstances, sir, I don't think any of us should be assigned," d'Artagnan argued.

"I've already tried to get the four of you out of it, but was unsuccessful. That's why you are just now getting your orders. Keep your thoughts to yourself, don't interfere with the auction." He stopped for a moment, not wanting to say what he had to say, but knowing it was for the best if he made it an order. "And DON'T go looking for Madam Vesey — or whatever her name may be." He turned back around, not waiting for their reaction. There was a weight on his mind, heavy and burdening. He had just ordered them not to do something that he desperately wanted to do himself.

Ramon and d'Artagnan started to protest but the words never escaped their lips, because Jacqueline had spoken before they could. "Marcellus, sir," she said, answering his unspoken question.

Duval spun back around. The others already knew her name, so said nothing, only looked at their companion. Duval, however, had a very different reaction. "What did you say?" he blurted without thinking. Noting the shocked looks on his musketeer's faces, he quickly added in a calmer voice, "Repeat that name clearly, cadet, so there is no mistaking it."

"Her name is Sancia Marcellus, sir," Jacqueline repeated, a little hesitantly after seeing the captain's reaction. She only meant to give him a name, not upset him.

"That — that can't be, Leponte," he said, the shock replaced by a mournful look. "The Marcellus family is dead." Even as he said it, he knew the statement to be false. The piece of the puzzle he hadn't dared ask about had been put into place, confirming what he had suspected.

"That may be, sir, but that is the name Siroc gave us when he introduced her to us the other evening," d'Artagnan said, backing up Jacqueline.

But Duval didn't respond to the affirmation. This was definitely a time to be alone. "You have your orders. You're dismissed," Duval said, turning back around. If what they said were true — and he knew it was — then his friend's son had been under his nose for almost five years. He hadn't even recognized Siroc the way he had Sancia. The wiry, half-starved boy that had come in search of work bore little resemblance to his strong, healthy friend. But some part of the captain's soul had recognized Donatien's son and urged him to take him in and give him a home. '_Oh, how their lives should have been different,'_ he thought as the door closed.

"You knew?!" d'Artagnan asked as he and Ramon flanked Jacqueline once in the common room, his tone slightly accusative.

Ramon crossed his arms and narrowed his dark eyes at the shorter musketeer. "You should have told us, amigo!" he ventilated.

Jacqueline crossed her arms, mirroring her friends stances, prepared to defend herself from their obvious frustration with her. "Yes, I knew. And I didn't tell you because Siroc asked me not too. Not everything about everyone is your business!"

"He's our friend, Jacques. What happens to him is our business," d'Artagnan countered, finding himself seriously irritated with her.

"The only reason I know is because I figured it out on my own," she said a little more evenly than before. "You've both known him a lot longer than I have, and you know how secretive he is about things." She dropped her arms back to her side, giving d'Artagnan the look she always did when she needed someone to talk to, to understand. He always could read her like a book when she was struggling with something, and she had definitely struggled with telling them, especially after 'the incident' with the rapier. Jacqueline felt a little more relieved when d'Artagnan relaxed his stance slightly and his eyes lightened from the stormy clouds that were striking at her.

"I still say you should have told us, compadre," Ramon said, dropping his arms back to his side. His face contorted slightly as the wheels in his head turned. "I guess what we should be worrying about now is how we're going to get his sister from Vesey, no?" His lips curved up into his trademark grin.

"You heard the captain. We're not supposed to go looking for her," Jacqueline reminded, feeling slightly like an overbearing mother reminding children to mind their manners.

D'Artagnan put a hand on her shoulder, smiling mischievously. "Yes, but he never said we couldn't seek out her master."

"And what exactly are we going to do when we find him?" Jacqueline shot, a little unsure of what her friends were thinking.

"We buy her," Ramon answered, completely serious.

"We don't have that kind of money, Ramon," Jacqueline said pessimistically.

D'Artagnan squeezed her shoulder. "I have some savings," he said.

"As do I," Ramon added. "Plus what's left of our pay."

They were dead serious. It was clear as day, and who was Jacqueline to put a damper on such a noble idea? "I have some left as well," she added quietly. "Let's just hope it's enough; I get the impression he's not going to let her go easily."

"Should we tell Siroc?" d'Artagnan asked, taking his arm from Jacqueline's shoulder.

"No," Ramon and Jacqueline said at the same time. "But we should make sure he's still here. He was uncharacteristically…emotional tonight," Jacqueline added, a lingering fear creeping over her.

The three made their way back to the laboratory. Ramon and d'Artagnan had planned on 'picking up' something for Siroc's space. But, their friend's fiery sister seemed like a greater gift. How Siroc would respond, they didn't know, nor did they care if he would disapprove of them spending their meager savings and pay on such an endeavor. He was their brother in all intents and purposes and therefore she was also their sister now.

They piled through the entryway, expecting to see their friend hiding his pain in some kind of experiment or feverishly writing in his notebook, but neither sight greeted them. They stopped for a moment, cursing under their breaths, before scattering to check his room and other parts of the garrison. They couldn't find him anywhere in the musketeer barracks. And as they frantically searched, dread quickly filled each.


	13. Chapter 13

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Thirteen:**  
**Daring Rescue, Unforeseen Consequences.**

At first glance there was stone, and then the darker shades of weathered wood seeping through the cold, dingy rock that seemed to be everywhere, in everything. Layers of mud and muck coated the streets and walls of stone, only to be transformed to dust in the summer, a dry form that stole the moisture from every living thing. But no matter the time of year, it was just filth, a caking substance that adds to the foreboding and isolation of the Parisian landscape.

And in the dark of the night, in which a lone figure crept, the filth knew what was coming and that something would soon be added to its layer. Perhaps spilled blood would cover portions of the cityscape, or a street corner that was kept clean for the 'higher' classes, keeping it pleasant to appease aristocratic taste. Or perhaps blood would trickle in drips, marking the stone with only single drops as the owner rushed away, with the specks appearing only to those who are looking for the crimson substance. If the walls and streets of Paris could speak, they'd whisper a warning sound. For the streets of Paris knew French history, and how much blood has been spilt in the darkest corners. They knew what signs to look for to know when they will be washed again by the life-force of men.

In this night, they whispered again about a blonde boy with a gentle, curious soul that was inflamed with a desire to complete one task. He slipped from shadow to shadow, avoiding lantern light. He was a hunter, seeking his prey: A man on top of a horse, two men who follow and a girl who held all emotion inside, an emotion that fuels her passionate soul to do things that were otherwise against common sense.

Siroc heard the soft murmur of voices. But the words were lost, too quiet to make out despite the only sound being the click-clack of Vesey's horse. He waited for his chance, the right moment to move. He griped the hilt of his blade and quickened his pace as the four figures rounded a corner. He stopped only when he heard the sound of some of a nearby tavern's patrons wandering into to the street. It was the witching hour of night, and these few stragglers were only some of a few Parisians that linger in the darkness. And soon, two more figures would escape into the dark shadows of the French streets — but only if his rescue attempt went as planned.

Sancia looked over her shoulder, with a lingering fear (or was it hope?) that her brother was not far behind. When it came to Siroc, Sancia had always had a sixth sense, knowing when he'd be there. It started in their youth and included the ability to finish each other's sentences and know what the other was thinking with just a glance. And this was one night that she felt that he did not heed her plea to let her go, to accept her sacrifice. Besides, if she didn't go back, how else was she going to save her other family? There was so much she had failed to tell him; it was so much bigger than the two of them now. It was about life; it was about freedom, and it was about love, love for her brother, three small children and four adults who had been there for them. For an instant, she saw a hint of white moving through the edges of the lantern light, but she looked forward again. _'He won't dare do something brash; he is the rational one.'_

A shrewd voice pulled her attention back to the men around her. "Your master's talking to you," the blonde brute who held her tightly hissed as he yanked her along, dragging her forward a few steps before her foot-falls evened again.

She narrowed her eyes to tiny slits, shooting daggers with her gaze and wanting nothing more than to yell expletives at them all. But as she opened her mouth, her master's spinning horse stole her attention and a sudden sense of fear fell over her.

When Vesey found the little imp gone, he came close to panicking. He had unwittingly revealed his plans to the slave girl. And only realized he had when she tried to use sultry charm — the charm he forced her to use on others — on him. But what she was digging for, he didn't know. What she revealed, was a must to know. For every word she uttered, about his current 'business' venture or any in the past, would put his name on an execution order. He had avoided that once twelve years before. And if he had to take the life of this girl and her brother to pull the thorn from his side that had been stabbed there by their father, so be it. He had underestimated her. He had made yet another mistake. And before this night, she had been nothing more than a stupid girl with a pretty face. And it was only now that he realized she was her father's child. And she had sparked within him a madness to preserve all he had. So forgetting all his reservations, he asked in a cool tone that sent shivers even through him, "What did you tell them?"

Normally, a conversation such as this one would be held in private. And it was mildly pleasing to see Vesey agitated by recent events. For the first time in what had to be years, Sancia could see fear in his dark orbs. She swallowed hard though, still anxious, despite her pleasure. "Nothing," she insisted, barely controlling her contempt. It would serve him right if she had told her twin everything he was up to. She should have, but there were so many secrets, events twisted up, swirling through her mind. Too much duty, too much love, and a year's worth of planning that she had to see through. It was part of why she let them take her — for her beloved brother's sake and for the sake of those who were what she and Siroc had once been.

"You expect me to believe," he began, leaning forward in his seat and bringing his upper body down toward the neck of his horse and his face closer to hers. "That you didn't tell those meddling musketeers…YOUR BROTHER…anything?" he said harshly, controlling the volume of his voice through clenched teeth.

"I don't care if you believe me —" Her words were silenced by hand across her face. She dropped to her knees, the pain too much to bear, with her hand covering the already tender cheek. She took deep breaths to silence the screaming pain throbbing out from the side of her face, blinking away tears. The fiery woman wasn't sure who had struck her. She hadn't seen the hand before it knocked her to the ground and Sancia would never get the chance to confront her attacker — for while she clutched her face her ears were assailed by the sickening crack of bone.

Watching, waiting for his moment, Siroc stood in the shadows. The party had stopped and although he could sense the harshness in the exchanged words by the look on Vesey's face and his sister's defiant stance, he could not hear them. But all eyes were on his twin, and it was the moment he had been waiting for — an empty street and unprepared men. So, tightening his grip and closing his eyes, he prepared his soul for what was to come. His mind wandered back to words that he once spoke to Jacques — _'Pray for me'_ — as he moved quickly forward. And he prayed now that his friend would do just that, regardless of the outcome.

And with one swift motion, the blonde who Siroc had held his blade too, fell unconscious to the ground, blood flowing from the gash in the back of his head. He swung his blade over Sancia's kneeling form, meeting the rapier that had been drawn and sidestepping his former master's advance on him by horse. With one eye on his sister — who seemingly recovered and was scampering out of the way and pulling the fallen man's rapier — he engaged Vesey's henchman, taking a crack to the jaw from a fist, as he forced the man's weapon up with his. Siroc stumbled back, engaged in a dance that if ending in his opponent's death would put a price on his head far larger than that of 'escaped slave.' He had to find a hole in the fighting; he had to bring him down without the tip of his sword scathing the other's flesh. And then he found it. With a side flip, avoiding his opponent's lunge, Siroc rolled across the stone and came back up on his feet and delivered the same debilitating blow to the man's head that he had delivered the blonde.

And as the man dropped in a daze of pain and confusion, lights dancing across his vision, Siroc's breathing stopped at the sound of his sister's terrified scream and a shot echoed through the silent night.

Three musketeers hunted, searching for a friend and each were shrouded in apprehension. A Spaniard, a Frenchman and a spirited farm girl had separated immediately, each taking a different direction in hot pursuit. They had to find Siroc, before he crossed a line that they may not be able to bring him back from. They had a plan to help his sister, even if Jacqueline found it implausible…and she wouldn't dash her friends' noble ideas. So she searched alone, twisting through alleys, following her intuition — the same intuition that that had already saved the lives of her friends on several occasions.

She turned a corner, her form falling into the dim light of a lamp, and stopped. Her blood froze in her veins, heart stopping at the sight before her. She couldn't act. There was no time. But her feminine voice rang out with a fearsome cry, echoing the petite blonde.

Sancia swiped the blade in her left hand in a fluid upward stroke, knocking the gun up and slicing Vesey's wrist with the tip of the French-style sword. Her scream had been accompanied by action, and she didn't dare look in the direction it had been aimed until she drove her master back. His shriek was one she would savor from now until eternity. And instead of acting — the idols of his power fallen around him — he kicked the dark creature that bore him and rode off into the night — fear in his eyes, anger on his face. This wouldn't be the end, but it was for now.

It was only then, at the sight of his retreating back, did she spin quickly around. She couldn't stop herself; tears streamed down her face from fear. She dropped to her knees in front of her brother, who was on his knees, head hung, and rapier in hand. His shoulder dripping blood, saturating the linen he wore. "Sirocco?" she asked, her breathing heavy and bated.

The brilliant gold of Siroc's eyes met her tearful yellow as he lifted his head. "I'm all right, San. It's just a scratch," he replied weakly through sharp breaths. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as his face paled to a sickly white.

Propelling herself forward, she wrapped her arms around her brother. "We have to get out of here," she whispered as she pulled away and immediately started to bring her brother to his feet. His weight was difficult to manage, but as she lifted him, the weight disappeared and Sancia looked over, Jacqueline's stoic expression greeted her tearful face — the musketeer's fear evident in her eyes.

"I know where we can take him," Jacqueline reassured Sancia as she ignored Siroc's mumblings that it was only a scratch. "You'll both be safe."

And with those words, two women and an inventor found sanctuary in the darkness, hurrying away just before their worried friends could find them.


	14. Chapter 14

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Fourteen: Blood and Buttons**

Drip. One hit stone. Drip. Two hit dirt. Drip. Three. The trail began. Every droplet was minute — disappearing, blending and mingling with the muck after slipping down an inventor's arm. They traced the contours of his cream-colored flesh, just to roll off the tips of his slightly curled fingers. Some of the moisture will never add to the filth that two pairs of boots and a pair of ladies shoes trod over. Instead it stops shy and soaks into white, pink and gray cloth as a weakened man and two woman press against a cold wall, resting and waiting for their next moment to move.

In the wake of the movements that lead them to their current resting place, shouts come. The musketeer was now the hunted, sought by figures in crimson coats that moved so swiftly they missed the details that would lead them to their quarry. Jacqueline had searched frantically with her eyes, surveying each corner, each alley as they crept undetected. The burden around her shoulders grew heavier by the minute, even more so now that they were stationary. _'But at least his head is still up and his feet still moving,_' she thought gratefully, stealing a quick glance at Siroc's shallow face. It was within that glimpse she caught his sister's questioning orbs.

Why she trusted this 'man' with her life, Sancia would never be able to answer. She barely knew 'Jacques' and had only had a brief conversation with him. But although their interactions were limited, when Jacqueline took her brother's other arm — as if it wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last — a surge of relief flooded her soul. She was glad to see her brother's feminine friend. Of all Siroc's friends, Sancia couldn't have picked a better person to help her, and the musketeer's presence gave an answer to the panicked questions raging through her head. _'Where will we go? What will we do? Will he survive?'_ The same three echoed even now as she pleaded with her golden eyes for answer to these questions.

With a gesture of her head, Jacqueline indicated a monastery that was small and not over decadent. It looked holier than the larger cathedrals that were dressed up more as pronouncements of the 'church' under the guise of being God's houses. Its simplicity gave it a beauty that outdid even Notre Dam. "We'll need to go around to the back entrance. I don't want to chance being seen," she whispered, using her masculine tone.

"How do you know they'll help us?" Sancia asked, weary of the church and all who dwelled within the realm of religion. She still had faith and belief in divine assistance, but she questioned God's servants — after all they were only men and as sinful as any other human — after her parents had been executed, an action she viewed as murder given recent revelations.

"Brother Antoine is a friend, San," Siroc answered, lifting his head slightly to meet her eyes. His eyes were glazed over from pain and blood loss. "He's helped the musketeers before."

A sharp inhale and brief acknowledgement was all she could manage in return. Despite her twin's claim, it had to be more than a scratch. The hollow look, darkened eyes, ghost-white complexion were all signs she had seen before in the faces of the dying. _'Wouldn't I feel it if he was slipping away?'_ she wondered. But she doesn't sense end, only his pain. _'Yes, he'll be all right,'_ she consoled herself just as Jacqueline signaled that they were going to move again.

The three crossed the unoccupied street as the neigh of horses and distant shouts grew closer. They had to get inside before the guards closed in. Jacqueline's life was safe for now. No one had seen the musketeer come to her friend's aid, but these two were on dangerous ground. So keeping that in mind, the wanted murderess in men's attire led the pair down a narrow alley along the nearest side and then through a garden gate to the rear door, knocking once before shoving the solid wood door open with her free hand and stepping into a narrow hall, illuminated by soft candles.

The thump, thump, thump of human steps marred the quiet. But it wasn't the first sounds or the last that would break the still. The sounds echoed as two men met, joining up and rushing in the direction of the other noises that were causing them great concern.

"Did you hear that, amigo?" Ramon asked as he caught up to d'Artagnan, both men running with rapiers drawn. The Spaniard was unsettled, mumbling curses under his shallow breaths. The moment the sounds had drifted on the wind to meet his ears, he had turned and bolted back in the opposite direction, calculating each twist and turn he took to meet up with the legend's son.

"Yeah," he acknowledged through shortened breaths, his agitation only hidden by his labored respiration. Half of Paris heard those yells and the explosion of flint and powder. Different scenarios played in the Frenchman's head and each ended with one of his friends hurt or dead. But as much as he prayed it wasn't Siroc, Jacqueline or even Sancia, he also begged God for confirmation that it wasn't Vesey either. There was no way even Duval could help Siroc if he had killed a man to free a slave.

As the musketeers cleared the side street, stepping from shadow to light, their eyes met an eerie sight — two men down, alive but bleeding, and no sign of Vesey. But the slick of a man who once owned their friend wasn't far away. His hiss slithered behind the calls of searching guardsmen.

Ramon grabbed d'Artagnan's shoulder, swearing under his breath. The brown surface of the road was tinged black from the blood. Even in the flickering yellow light, the aftermath of their friends' struggle could be seen. _'But who got the worst of it?'_ the poet questioned silently. Watching the men struggle to their feet awakened something within him — a realization of how little he knew his closest friend. The fire that must have boiled the inventor's blood to drive him to such measures spoke of passion — a subject Ramon understood perfectly. Protecting his sister was the first thing outside of Siroc's laboratory he had seen create such a spark in the blonde. But passion can also lead to fear, and what Ramon feared now — as he pulled d'Artagnan back into the shadows to avoid detection — was what else this newly seen emotion would drive Siroc to do.

"We need to find them, compadre," Ramon said quietly just before two guards passed their shadow cloaked forms.

"Agreed and soon," d'Artagnan replied once the guards turned the corner. He gestured to the men now suffering verbal abuse from their employer, who was clutching his bleeding wrist. "Neither of those men was shot, Ramon, which means it could be…" He didn't finish the thought. Letting the words sink in, he smacked the Spaniard on the chest with the back of his hand. "Come on, they're clearing off. Let's see if we can track Siroc and Sancia."

"What about Jacques?" Ramon asked, worried about their other amigo as much as he was about their older friend.

"You heard the yelling too. More than likely he's already with them," d'Artagnan said, trying to sound reassuring. "Let's go," he finished before moving out into the midst of the messy roadway and praying, _'God, please let her be safe.'_

In a small room with only a bed and a nightstand, Jacqueline and Sancia dropped Siroc's weakened form gently onto the bunk. But instead of lying down, he let his back fall against the wall the bed was pressed up against. "You need to stop the bleeding, Jacques," he said weakly, blinking several times at the motionless forms in front of him.

"I know that, but I'm no good at this so you better keep talking," she shot, before sending a pleading look to Brother Antoine for help. She felt completely helpless. Siroc was the one to patch up people when something happened, not her. He's always been the one to pick up the pieces — at least medically. But she's tended the sick before. _'How different could this be?'_

God's will was sometimes mysterious, even to those who have studied the Bible's poetic verse. The burdens that every man and woman carry can lead them down dark paths, and the Catholic holy man could not help but wonder what path led these musketeers to their currently situation — for if the wound was merely from the course of their duties, this trio would be at the garrison and not in his humble quarters. But the brother had made it a point to assist those in need, if only to counter the disparagement and corruption that seeped from the leaders of his faith. And he made it a point to assist these particular musketeers, especially Jacques in matters of spirituality, with whatever he could. "I'll be right back with what we'll need to stop the bleeding and clean the wound," he informed after catching the look in Jacqueline's eyes. He leaned in before exiting the room so that only the musketeer can hear and whispered, "Get his shirt off and put a dagger into the fire. As bad as he's bleeding we're going to have to cauterize it." He put his hand gently on the female musketeer's shoulder and squeezed, announcing that all would be well with the expression on his face. He hoped.

"You're going to have to cut it off," Siroc said as if he overheard the brother's words — or read his mind. "I can't move my arm," he added, wincing with pain as Jacqueline pulled the baldric off.

"I thought it was only a scratch," Sancia reminded, her light voice sounding like a frightened child. She peeled his fingers from the handle of his blade. He had been grasping the hilt so tightly and with all the commotion, he had forgotten his weapon was still in hand.

"I may have exaggerated," he joked quietly, smiling lightly at his worried twin. He kept his eyes on his companions, knowing full well how much damage the bullet had done — in and out. He would heal, if the bleeding ever stopped.

"That's not funny, Siroc," Jacqueline interjected before Sancia could voice the same opinion. She held a dagger in her right hand, preparing to cut away the saturated cloth. "Hold still," she ordered before slowly cutting the front of the soiled shirt.

"You know shirts would be so much easier to remove if they buttoned all the way down," he noted absently, earning queer looks from the ladies. But even with severe blood loss and a hazy mental state the wheel works of the genius' mind didn't cease.

"Has he always been like this?" Jacqueline said, trying to take Sancia's thoughts away from her brother's addled commentary.

Sancia gently pulled the right sleeve from Siroc's arm, then handed the wadded cloth to Jacqueline to carefully remove it from the left side. "Pretty much," she answered, forcing herself to laugh but only to keep herself from weeping. The gravity of the situation was finally starting to hit her. He had come for her, but at what cost to himself, at what cost to the people Sancia had a duty to protect? What would she do now for him, for them? It was too much, overwhelming. And as she sat with her legs tucked under her staring at her brother's disoriented form, she fought to stop the tears that were forming in her eyes.

Jacqueline stood, moving toward the flames dancing in the fireplace and kneeling down in front of it. She watched the flickering light for a few moments then glancef at the blade in her hand, licking her lips once before setting the polished steel in the midst of the fire. The thought sickened her, what she was about to do with the heated weapon, to the point that she could feel the bile slowly rising. She already smelled burning flesh. But Jacqueline had to do it. She couldn't act like a squeamish woman; she had to maintain her masculine guise. So forcing out the air in her lungs quickly, Jacqueline rose and waited for Brother Antoine.

Just outside the door, the friar stood. His eyes washed over the imperfections in the wood before his mind drifted into prayer, quietly whispering a call for guidance, support and assistance in protecting the life that hung in peril. He crossed himself, forehead to navel, shoulder to shoulder, whispering, "In nominee Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," before shoving the door open and moving quickly to Siroc, who now sat as if heaped on the bed, his sister holding tightly to his right hand with both of hers.

The Catholic brother placed several pieces of cloth and a bottle of wine on the bed, and handed Sancia a kettle full of water. "Put that on the fire please, Milady," he said, using a formal address since he had yet to be introduced to the young woman. "Jacques, it looks like it went straight through. I'm going to clean the wound. Let me know when you're ready," he told her while busying himself with his own work.

"What are you going to do?" Sancia asked, her eyes darting between the two then back to her brother as she hooked the kettle over the fire and noted the dagger in the flames.

"They're going to cauterize it, San," Siroc told her, still keeping hold of his logical thinking although he wasn't a hundred percent sure that it was indeed their intent. "It's the fastest and safest way to get the bleeding to stop and seal the wound," he continued after her eyes went wide, sending her thin eyebrows up with them.

She sent a frightened look at Jacqueline, letting a single tear roll down her cheek. She fought to stay strong, to maintain a stoic state and hide her emotions like she always tried to do. But it had been hard the last few days. The unfeeling, indifferent exterior had been shattered the moment she had wrapped her arms around her brother, and the more she entangled herself with his presence, with concern for him, the more she slipped back into an emotional child — one that never held back thoughts, opinions or emotion. Sancia was not weak; she was strong. But in this case, she was two steps from breaking down altogether from the weight of their lives. She wanted Siroc to wrap his arms around her and tell her everything would be fine, like he did when they were children. But that wasn't going to happen.

There is an innate instinct in women to comfort those in need. It stems from motherly intuition. And it was this instinct that Jacqueline warred with as she watched the inventor's sister. She wanted to hug her, tell her it would all be well one more time. But she had to stay strong, which meant keeping her manly disguise and pretending to have the resolve of a man as well. So taking a calming breath, she informed, "I'm ready, Brother Antoine," as she pulled the red-hot knife from the fire using a handkerchief and left the blonde woman fidgeting by the fire.

"It might be better if you lie down," Brother Antoine suggested, taking the bottle of wine from Siroc that the inventor had been drinking on and setting it on the floor.

Siroc slid down the wall until his right side rested on the stiff mattress and pulled his legs up. He took the piece of cloth Brother Antoine offered and shoved the piece in his mouth, biting down on it already as he anticipated the pain that was about to rack his body.

"The back first. It's bleeding out more than the front," the holy man suggested to both musketeers. Receiving confirmation with a quick nod from Siroc, he helped the inventor roll onto his stomach and gasped along with Jacqueline at the sight. Down his back, from shoulders to waist, were think scars, criss-crossing in every direction. Barely any flesh remained that didn't bare the welted marks.

Jacqueline hesitated for a moment. Vesey's shrill voice rang suddenly in her mind: _'That man is my property!'_ And although she had heard the words, it just now dawned on her that her friend had been a slave, just like his sister, and bore the scars of a life that was controlled by someone else. She forced herself to move forward, putting one knee on the bed as Brother Antoine held Siroc's tense form. The female musketeer closed her eyes, her heart pounding in her chest, and she wished that d'Artagnan or Ramon were there so that she wouldn't have to do it. But this was her task, so without another thought, she pressed the hot metal to scarred flesh.

When all was said and done — the wounds sealed, the blood washed away by warm water and a poultice applied to help heal the bright red dagger marks — Siroc rested with his head in his sister's lap, breathing heavily. His shoulder was wrapped to help hold the poultice in place with the shredded cloth the priest had brought in with him. The male twin wasn't quite asleep but he wasn't coherent either and the only sensation he was aware of was his sister playing with his sweat-dampened hair. She rambled on, talking about things from their childhood — fencing, their parent's parties, sneaking out in the middle of the night — in hushed tones.

Jacqueline wiped the blood from her hands. They shook slightly as her mind flip-flopped between what she found more disturbing — the fact that he didn't call out, meaning he was accustom to such pain, or the fact that she had to cause a friend a great deal of pain, whether he expressed it vocally or not. That pain he felt was etched on his face and in his inability to react coherently. It was there, and she had helped cause it. She never wanted to cause any of her friends pain. She loved them all like brothers.

Sighing, she wiped the blade. Her eyes were cast down as she considered her next move. She knew what she had to do next — find d'Artagnan and Ramon. But she didn't want to leave Siroc and Sancia. They were still being hunted and if she was spotted, covered in blood, all it would take was one stray guardsmen spotting her, following them, and brother and sister would be revealed. But she had to go. She had to find them and let them know what was going on. It was what would come after that frightened her the most. What would they do with their now wanted friends? They could not hide as she did.

Her revelry was interrupted by a gentle hand on her arm and a soft tone that Brother Antoine always used when offering spiritual guidance. "Sometimes we are forced into things that we wish he weren't. You did what you had to," he offered quietly.

She had not known this religious man for long, but he had always been there for her since they first met to lead her when her heart and mind disagreed on matters of spirituality. "I know," she said half-heartedly, her arms and shoulders sagging slightly. The weariness she felt was plain. "Will you look after them? I need to find our friends, let them know what's happened."

"Of course," he said, squeezing the musketeer's arm and then letting his hand fall away. "Dóminus vosbiscum," he added as she moved toward the door.

Jacqueline looked back over her shoulder, her lips pursing slightly and eyes revealing her fatigue. "And also with you," she responded, slipping out the portal into the darkened hall. She waited for a moment, a strange feeling encompassing her. It said not to go, but things must be done if the Marcellus's ever wished to be truly free.


	15. Chapter 15

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Fifteen: Sneaking in the Dark**

Back in the shadows with the coolness of deep night seeping through her coat, Jacqueline slinked from corner to corner, alley to alley. The silence was deafening; the shouts ceased. Only footfalls could be heard in the distance, reverberating across the cobblestones. She retraced her steps in the hopes of finding her other friends, to quench the fears she was sure were tormenting them. She felt panicked, uncertainty, as when she first began her escapade as a musketeer, afraid for her brother, herself. And Siroc was their brother. The inventor had become as close to them as she was to Gerard, and fear was a natural emotion when one's family was threatened.

Jacqueline formulated a plan as she drifted in and out of light and dark. Siroc and Sancia needed help, but they were safe for the moment. Logically, it would be best to return to the garrison. Vesey would certainly return there to confront Duval on where the fugitives were hiding. It needed to look as though the musketeers were not involved, that Siroc acted alone. And through subterfuge, surely Duval would help as well. After all, he knew their family; why else would he react the way he did at the mention of their family name?

In a short time, the wanted murderess had learned much about her friend. In the last few weeks, what little information she had learned about his past had come through prodding d'Artagnan and Ramon. But the last two days, she had discovered things that not even they were privy to. In a way, the feeling satisfied her, not out of arrogance, but because she had known Siroc for only a short time. Either God worked in mysterious ways, which Jacqueline was sure he did, or it was another mark in favor of women's intuition. Granted, her friends had discovered some of the same things, but strangely, the farm girl was one step ahead of them. And she thanked God over and over again for granting her the divine wisdom she needed to protect the blonde inventor — for divinity had surely dictated her steps in the correct direction to find the genius and his sister when she did. She prayed he would continue to guide her and them down a road that would insure freedom.

The female musketeer turned a corner, stepping into complete black. No glimmer of star, moon or lantern light touched this narrow byway. The hair stood on the back of her neck, a chill shooting down her as if to warn of the presence of something that didn't belong. Her senses kicked in just a fraction of a second too late; four hands nabbed her. She let out a squawk before a palm covered her mouth and pulled her aside. Her body seized as trepidation engulfed her. She couldn't be caught, not now, not before she got to d'Artagnan and Ramon. Siroc and Sancia needed their help; they couldn't do it alone, and now Jacqueline would never see them safe. She started to struggle, following every measure of training she had accumulated from her years of play and months of formal training within the military ranks.

"Shhh, it's just us!" d'Artagnan's voice cut through, his tone urgent. The legend's son didn't want to be detected or hit for that matter. The feminine protest, however, set his heart at ease, at least on the portion that centered on her. He couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to her; too much had already cursed the farm girl's life. He dropped his hand away once he felt her relax.

Irritated that they had frightened her, Jacqueline immediately swatted the Frenchman on the arm, while shrugging out of Ramon's grasp. She glared sharply in the direction where Jacqueline knew d'Artagnan stood. "You could have just said my name instead of accosting me in the dark!" she shot piercingly, barely keeping a masculine tone in her anger. Her closest friend never failed to rile her up. The female musketeer was already on edge, and such actions only threw her off balance; one wrong step and she would tumble and fall off the side. She growled in frustration.

"Sorry, amigo," Ramon injected before d'Artagnan could speak, his tone a bit hasty — a clear indication he had other things on his mind. His heart palpitated irregularly from anxiety and over the fate of his friend. If there was one thing that could silence his limerick ways, it would be losing any of his three brothers-in-arms, and they had just found one of them safe. But where was the other? "We weren't entirely sure it was you —" His words came out quickly before diving into a question without even a breath "—Where's—"

"Where is Siroc?" d'Artagnan cut in before the Spaniard could finish. He sensed Jacqueline's vexation but ignored it. Knowing that one of three was safe, the legend's son pushed on to discover the welfare of his friend and Sancia. Jacqueline's presence only mildly soothed his soul; he wouldn't be at ease until he knew whether Siroc was safe.

Jacqueline straightened the front of her coat, purposefully making them wait as punishment for their antics. When she felt right again and not so ruffled, the brunette sighed, reluctant to give them too much information out of fear they'd overreact. "He's fine. Brother Antoine is hiding them."

"And the shot, compadre?" Ramon asked just as she finished, hitting the subject she had hoped to avoid. Had the alley been lit, Ramon's face would have shown with an intensity he only possessed when provoked — a glint of flame in his eyes. His entire form was tense; knots formed between his shoulder blades. The tensed muscles burned as if to remind him of that every moment was urgent.

"I said, they're fine," she growled insistently, not really wanting to repeat the word 'fine' again. She said the word a bit drawn out as if stretching the single syllable would increase their understanding. Jacqueline pursed her lips before spinning to walk away. She grimaced slightly once her back was to them because of the lie. Images of blood covering her friend, the dazed look in his eyes, the scars on his back and the new scar she inflicted, all screamed that he was anything but all right. She hated lying to them, but didn't want to risk two 'hot-headed' responses. _'Men,'_ she quipped silently. The female musketeer only hoped her tone was at least convincing, but suspect it wasn't.

"You are lying, Jacques!" d'Artagnan called her bluff, seeing through her façade as he always did. What she was exactly lying about, he wasn't sure, but the feeling that something was wrong was too overwhelming to ignore. Her companion, who had fallen in step behind her with Ramon hard on his heels, grabbed her shoulder to halt her movement.

Jacqueline whipped around at his touch just inside a circle of light. She was tired, worn, and all she wanted was to get back to the garrison. Her blonde friend was safe, as was his sister, so their situation would hold for now. They needed to sit down and think about this rationally, not run off with swords drawn into a blaze of hellfire. She opened her mouth but didn't get a chance to refute his accusations.

"Dios mío!" Ramon swore as chocolate eyes glimpsed the crimson stain on the front of her uniform. Suspecting that Jacques was injured and just hiding it, he immediately reached for his friend at the same time as d'Artagnan. The shorter man's hands roamed over her discreetly, making sure to avoid the 'chest' region of his female friend, while Ramon's hands wandered freely. "You're hurt!" they uttered in unison. Their voices dropped to a whisper as they said the second word. They pulled her back into the shadows, and their act came at just the right moment. Several curious citizens strolled by, gossiping over the nights events — the shot, the commotion that followed, and now why both guardsmen and musketeers were on alert. They had seen the trio, but assumed they were out like all the others as they missed Jacqueline's soiled attire.

Jacqueline shirked off their touch, a little unnerved. The wrong touch in the wrong spot by Ramon would be disastrous for her. "It's not mine!" she reassured them in hushed tones, her eyes following the passersby. Moving away from them, she continued on her jaunt back to the garrison. "We 'need' to get 'back' to the garrison," she called over her shoulder.

"Whose is it?" two voices demanded from behind before she could take two steps. They didn't move or even attempt to follow. Both dawned stubborn expressions that clearly demanded answers about the night's events — events Jacqueline was privy to. They both had their arms crossed in front of them, and Ramon's chin was dropped down to his chest to peer at her from the top of his eye sockets.

The brunette shifted her weight from foot to foot before turning back to face them. Her shoulders sagged slightly; her body ached from carrying Siroc, and she had lost all feeling in her legs from the knee down due to fatigue. She had sought them out to tell them, but after considering a plausible plan of action — which so far only consisted of getting back to musketeer headquarters — she wasn't sure she should give them the details of the evening.

The fugitive was still disturbed about what she did to Siroc, and his reaction to the heated blade pressed against his skin. Calling out was natural and even the strongest of men would do so. He had not uttered a sound, not a peep, and the memory of it would haunt her forever. Even now, Jacqueline's hands trembled and she shuddered at the thought. Besides, she couldn't tell them; they would just go rushing off to check on their friend. And the less people — musketeers — slipping in and out of the monastery, the better. But she also knew she would be standing in this locale until the early light of dawn crested in the east if she didn't give them something.

Jacqueline growled low in her throat, chewing on the words to use to tell them one of their closest friends had taken a shot. And after a few moments, the female musketeer decided just saying it would be best. "Siroc will survive. It went clean through his shoulder," she finally answered, letting it sink in before diving into more detail. "We cauterized the wound. Sancia's with him."

The pair relaxed a little but not much. Two sets of eyes drilled her as if waiting for answers. "And?" d'Artagnan finally uttered after a long pause.

"They're safe," Jacqueline reiterated, sighing lightly as her head tilted to the side. "What more do you want me to tell you? Brother Antoine will hide them for the time being, and we need to get back to the garrison before anyone notices we're missing as well," she reminded, trying to use logic to reason with her friends the way Siroc would. She stretched her neck from side to side, her own exhaustion getting to her.

Ramon and d'Artagnan wanted nothing more than to join their friend, but something about her last words ignited what little reason they had. It was late, Vesey would come after the musketeers for Siroc's actions, and they'd be lucky if Mazarin didn't convince Louis into disbanding their ranks for the inventor's rogue action. The situation required some finesse, which meant keeping the truth from their superior. They never left the garrison; it's what they would stick to unless they were spotted on the way back … then, they'd have to think of something. "All right, back to the garrison, but then we want details," d'Artagnan conceded, glaring for a moment to push his point.

All the sorted scenarios they imagined when they first heard the shot replayed in the Spaniard and Frenchman's heads. They could see Siroc moving, wielding his rapier in perfectly flawless strokes with the thoughts of his sister adding fire to his fluid movements. They imagined, based on the condition of the three, how quickly he moved to incapacitate the two who held Sancia, only to receive a ball from Vesey — a ball, which more than likely, was meant for his sister, and Siroc had protected her.

"I swear it," Jacqueline acknowledged, turning again to march in the direction of home; her friends jogged to catch up to their quick moving companion. Jacqueline would do anything to keep them away from the monastery and get them back to musketeer headquarters before they were all arrested for aiding Siroc in his misadventure. If she were arrested, Jacqueline would be discovered — and d'Artagnan, out of the two, knew that better than anyone. He wore evidence for a good two weeks from his first encounter with the torture masters of the Bastille after taking the blame for her own ignorant actions. She would not risk him, Ramon unwittingly, or herself. More importantly, she would not risk Siroc and Sancia by returning to them while their master and the red-coated demons still searched.

As the trio approached the garrison, the familiar echo of shouts carried on the wind. But this time the shouts were not from the Cardinal's guard or men employed by Siroc's former master. These calls came from musketeers, who were now engaged in the hunt for the young private. They paused momentarily just inside the range of the voices; two sets of eyes glanced at Jacqueline.

"Now what?" d'Artagnan asked, peering discretely around a corner to see Captain Duval in the midst of a shouting match with Maurice Vesey. Although Vesey's words were muffled due to the fact his back was to the musketeers, Duval's thunderous words were clear as day:

_"Don't threaten me," the captain's voice came at a near yell, his tone seething. "Siroc isn't here, nor is his sister. I hope you will take this matter to his majesty because I assure you, I WILL be addressing it with him regardless."_

_Another set of muffled words followed Duval's near indignant sentences._

_"Yes, well, perhaps at the same time you can explain how exactly the children of a nobleman and former musketeer ended up in your possession! Children who were reported as DEAD!!"_

_The word 'heretic' stood out clear amongst a sharp exhale of sound._

_Duval's cane thumped the stone laid in the courtyard with a sharp clank. "I don't give a damn what he was accused of!" The aged musketeer's chin jutted upward, until he looked down his nose at the dark-haired man. His lip twitched, and the expression on his face was one of controlled rage, barely controlled rage. _

_Once more the words of the man who had tried to reclaim their friend as a slave earlier that evening were muffled, but the man's chin came up as well, countering the musketeer's stance, almost in a challenge. His words seemed to echo the nobleman's posture._

_"Oh, you are correct about that. This isn't over!" Duval snapped through clenched teeth. His chin dropped as a burly lieutenant came up beside him, speaking lowly so that only the musketeer could hear. His head nodded once in affirmation, before his eyes darkened again to glare at the slick of a man in front of him. "Good night!" he said harshly before turning and following his subordinate back inside, shouting orders at an idle man on his way in._

Jacqueline waited until the conversation between captain and master ceased before she answered the question burning in d'Artagnan and Ramon's eyes. The entire garrison was up and moving and on the hunt for a blonde private. It was a situation they could use to their advantage if spotted reentering. With one exception: Jacqueline was still coated in blood; she would have to find another way to slip inside. Glancing from friend to friend, she whispered, "I'll sneak around the back through the kitchens; you two fall in with the other musketeers going in and out. If the captain asks, you were out with the others looking for Siroc."

"Not a bad idea, amigo," Ramon said in a hushed tone; his eyes narrowed at the man Siroc had once called master as the slave owner mounted his horse. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and challenge the man for shooting his younger friend. Vesey had wounded his 'brother', and the Spaniard's blood boiled with hatred. His fingers twitched near the hilt of his weapon.

D'Artagnan swatted Ramon lightly across the chest, shaking his head when he had the older musketeer's attention. "Later," the Frenchman mouthed, revealing his own desires to confront that man for many reasons.

"Well, here we go," Jacqueline said flippantly, preparing to slip around in the shadows to the backside of their home. A hand stopped her right as she moved. Her head turned, glimpsing the dark wells of d'Artagnan's eyes. They held no arrogance, no challenge, just concern for her. They held something else as well, something usually cloaked in superciliousness, but perhaps she was only imagining things. For a moment, she saw him to the core. For a moment, she sensed his true feelings for her. But she shook it off almost as soon as it entered her mind. After all, emotions still ran high for all of them.

D'Artagnan gripped her tightly, but not hard enough to injure the female musketeer. He swallowed hard, almost gulping, before he said softly, "Be careful, Jacques." His brows shot up to add to the already serious expression that emphasized his words. He didn't want any more blood spilled, least of all hers. Siroc's was more than enough, too much actually.

She smiled lightly, pulling her arm from his grasp and nodding once to convey her understanding. There would always be that unspoken connection between them, one neither was willing to address — yet. "I'll meet you in Siroc's lab after I change clothes," Jacqueline said. Her thin form disappeared into the darkness.

Straightening their coats and tunics and holding their heads high, the remaining pair waited only a few minutes before two of their compatriots walked past. They fell into step behind them, pretending to be following them back from the hunt. Outwardly, they appeared composed; inwardly, they cringed at the thought that the captain would spot them. By some miracle, they manage to get inside and into Siroc's laboratory without their commanding officer catching sight of them.

The question on both their minds was: What do we do now?

Even the devil had angels, though most called them demons. They were creatures who dwelt in darkness and lived to bring forth destruction and decay. The smell of blood was cherished amongst the damned; though in this case, it was not the smell of death that caught the senses of a red-clad man. He was a devil in his own right, in his Eminence's service. Charcoal eyes spotted the marks that would lead them to their man and his sister.

He held an orange-yellow lantern high, following the specks of blood that had dripped to the earth off the fingertips of a blonde genius. His men followed, not entirely sure what their commander was doing. But, with a smile on his face, the devil led his demons right to the door of a monastery, where the trail of blood ended.


	16. Chapter 16

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Sixteen: Dancer in the Dark**

_We two are dancers in the dark,_  
_Under the leaves so green._  
_The white-washed moon in the cool of spring,_  
_Bathing__ the earth in languid blue._  
_The sounds of creatures high in the trees,_  
_Of creatures nestled below._  
_To sit in the dark,_  
_And drink in the stars,_  
_And watch the world spin slow._  
_We two are dancers in the dark,_  
_Lost in a world so cold._

Under the soft glow of candlelight, two boyish eyes skimmed the text of a poem, one of the many things written in a little black book. They blinked once, then again, fighting sleep that beckoned. _'Just a few more pages,'_ he kept telling himself, _'only a few more.'_ Slowly Sirocco's head lowered, resting on his arm as he turned to the next page. His eyelids sagged, covering the golden orbs as he sighed. It was only the stubbornness of youth that kept him going this far, forcing himself to continue although he was sure half the night was gone. He yawned.

But as quickly as his hazel eyes closed, they opened once more as a familiar sound reached his ears. The floorboards in the hall creaked, and given that this was his home since birth, he knew every moan and groan of his house. That particular one was the board right outside his door. He smiled lightly, suspecting a little girl was creeping across the hall. Any moment, his door would open and his twin would be standing in the entryway with a smile on her face, demanding to know what exactly he was doing and why he wasn't sharing. Sometimes being a twin was annoying, but for the most part, he loved sharing with her. Sancia made life fun.

Even when she got him in trouble, she never failed to make him laugh despite himself. The pair lived in a world untouched by others, a world only they understood. And it was within this bond that they held onto secrets, jokes that only the twins understood. If he didn't have her, who would he share jokes with, who would he play games with, who would be there to make him smile when everything made him mad? Yes, she made life fun because, put simply, she was his best friend.

Once more, the floorboards in the hallway squeaked, but his door never opened. Whispers added to the sounds seeping into his chambers. Sirocco's brow knitted with puzzlement as he crawled out of his bed, curious as to what was going on. He pulled on his pants under his night shirt and tucked the book inside the waistband so that it rested against his lower back. More than likely it was his sister, his mother or father, or even one of the servants. But regardless of who it was, whatever they were doing was strange. Nobody sneaked around in the middle of the night, at least not frequently. Besides, the curious little boy would not rest until his nature was satisfied. It was just his way.

Opening his door just a crack, Sirocco stuck his blonde head out to peer into the hallway. No lights shown outside his room, but shadows moved liked thieves in the night. Watching the figures, Sirocco's heart almost stopped. Who were they? What were they doing in his home? His face scrunched out of fear and confusion. The frightened child wanted to hide away, protect himself, but his stubborn side pushed for action. He would secure his sister, and then they would go for their parents. After all, there was safety in numbers, no matter how small the pair was.

He waited for a break, until the forms were down the hall, and quickly crossed the hall to Sancia's room. Just because the mysterious intruders had not entered his room, did not mean they had not gone into his sister's. He'd save her; he had too — no one messed with his sister. He might be little and even horrible with a sword, but there were some things that could be solved by simply thinking logically. And logically, he had the stealth of night to hide his movement, and the only noise sounding from the eight-year-old was that of tiny feet padding on cold wood — padding which was too quiet for anyone to hear over the creaking of the floor caused by the men. He quietly entered into Sancia's darkened apartment, moving toward his sister's bed. "San," he whispered, knowing she was there, somewhere, for he could feel her presence.

"Over here," a small voice called from over by the wardrobe. "Who are they?" she questioned, her voice tinged with fear and defiance at the same time. There was no way her father would let the thieves, if that's what they were, do anything, and the child would be right by the older Marcellus' side to say, 'Serves you right!' when her father defeated the invaders. Like the legends of old, her father was her Hercules, her Zeus with his thunderbolts — only Donatien's weapon was a fine-crafted rapier.

Finding each other in the dark, they hugged briefly before clasping right hand to left and moving back to the door. "I'm not sure. I didn't see mother or father either," Sirocco said at a whisper. "And I don't think they should be here." He nodded his head to punctuate the statement in a defiant way.

"What are we going to do then?" the bolder twin asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Sancia dove headlong into trouble almost every day, but Sirocco was the one to get them out. And, these strange men were definitely trouble. So, she retreated to her brother's judgment. The impudent little girl was at a loss and hoped her twin had the answers and the comfort she sought.

"We're going to get mother and father," Sirocco said pointedly. "Father will protect us," he continued, assured of that fact. To most children, fathers were white knights, and in the case of the Marcellus twins, that image was no different. Donatien was a hero in their eyes, a hero that could never be defeated. Little did they know, their father was about to fall from a white knight to a man — vulnerable and anything but invincible.

Hand in hand they continued toward the door. Their hearts raced like small, frightened animals. Each step was cautious, fear spiking as they moved. They knew all who came to their home. They knew all the faces, the forms that would be moving in the dark. And the men — at least they thought the intruders were men, though demons were what usually came in the dark — were not supposed to be there.

Siroc's tiny fingers grasped the knob, pulling the white, blue-trimmed door inward. Quietly the pair moved into the hallway, turning toward their parents' door and seeing a frightening sight, highlighted by the dancing light of a torch. Their blood ran cold at the scream emanating from their parents' quarters. Their mother's voice repeated the word 'no' in such a way that curdled the blood. They saw the forms moving, restraining their mother as their father fought against the cloaked forms, only to fall to his knees in defeat when a dagger was pressed to his beloved wife's throat.

Sancia immediately dropped her brother's hand and raced to her parents' aid. She screamed with each step for her parents. Sirocco watched in horror as her little feet skidded to a stop as one of the cloaked forms spun around to face the frantic child. The little girl back-pedaled at first, stepping away from the man bearing down on her. Her eyes went wide, darting about frantically as if looking for someone to save her. She finally turned on her heels, only to slide off her feet and onto her side as she tried to scamper away from the burly man, whose focus was solely on her. Before she could get up, the large figure, which smelled strongly of sweat and earth, grabbed the screaming child around the waist and pulled her into his arms, positioning her to avoid the flailing arms.

With the determination and fire of any precocious child, Sirocco grabbed the vase that sat upon a stand in the hallway. The expensive piece had been in the Marcellus family for generations, but such things could not be considered given the circumstances. He rushed the man who dared to touch his sister and slammed the vase against him, breaking it, making him yelp in pain, and more importantly, making him release his sister.

Sirocco immediately pulled Sancia's arm, getting her to her feet. They took off running down the hall, hearing their parents' continued protests against the men and shouts for their children to flee. Down the stairs they went, across the foyer, heading straight to the front door. The children tripped and fell as they ran, trying to stay ahead of the men chasing them.

The male twin stole a glance over his shoulder, watching the man stumble and fall on the smooth marble floor. _'Serves you right,'_ Sirocco thought, but the thought was quickly erased. As he turned to face forward, his sister was already skidding to a stop before they reached the double doors and saw a man who could have only been the devil. Sirocco's eyes caught sight of the form as his sister gasped with fear and a hilt of a rapier met the side of his head. The last sound he registered was his sister's and his mother's petrified screams.

With a sharp intake of breath, Siroc's eyes snapped open. At first, he was on the cold, damp floor of a dungeon with his sister, his head covered in blood, but now he realized that he was in a room of a holy friend. His body trembled, his mind addled by the dream of the night that changed his life. He tried to move his left arm, to bring his hand to his forehead and massage the dull ache away. But as he went to move, his shoulder throbbed in protest and the pain alone restricted his movement.

The inventor's eyes darted about, searching his surrounds. He turned his head, staring for a moment at the woman who stood erect in the middle of the room. _'So much like mother,'_ he thought, fleetingly. A drop of sweat rolled across his furrowed brow as he moved. He cleared his throat, feeling parched, and whispered her name in hoarse tone, "San?" His twin did not move or respond, but her form quaked with fear. The musketeer could see her fallen curls dance wildly from the movement, the fabric of her dress shifted though she was stationary. "What's wrong?" he queried, but his question was answered when the voices in the hall reached his ears, voices he could not hear clearly because of the fog surrounding his mind.

Siroc bolted up from the bed. The action made his head swim, and he caught himself on the headboard before he completely toppled. Shirtless and shoeless, clad only in breeches and bandages, he rushed to his sister's side. Right to left, he grabbed her hand, squeezing it with all of his strength. They had been found.

They had been in this position before, hand and hand with men in the hall coming for them. The last time ended badly — their parents were executed; they were enslaved, and their lives had changed forever because of that one moment in time. This time would be different; this time, they would be free — at least one of them would be. He would not let them take her, not again. He would not let noises in the hall turn into years of nightmares once more. He would die before that; he would die before she was bound to anyone against her will ever again.

Moving quickly, despite his body's protests, Siroc rushed back to the bed, grabbing his father's book. His head swam; his shoulder throbbed as if fire coursed forth from the wound, but he had to ignore it. Time was of the essence; it was not a luxury they had. He moved back to his sister, grabbing her shoulder with her right hand and spinning her toward him. He thrusted the notebook in her hands, forcing her to take it. "Sancia, crawl out the window — now — before Brother Antoine cannot hold them off. Be discreet, but find my friends, they will help you. Trust them," he intoned, kissing her check when he finished.

Her tear stained eyes went wide when he spun her around. What was he doing? It was a question that in her heart she already knew the answer to. She looked down at the worn book in her hands, her father's book — the only other thing Siroc protected besides her. And then his words sank in. "I'm not leaving you," Sancia finally responded, tears welling in her eyes for the countless time that day. Her voice shook like her body, choked and bitter as she began to tremble even more. "You're in no condition to be in a cell, and I will not let you sacrifice yourself for me." A single tear flowed from each eye, leaving a trail down her bruised and dirt smudged face. She loved her brother, and he could not defend himself when that door opened, but she could defend him. It may have been years since she last used a sword, but the knowledge was still there, locked away in her mind and waiting to escape. "I'm staying. Give me your blade," she insisted; her voice was weak but her courage was evident for the first time since her master whisked her out of her twin's sanctuary.

The inventor gritted his teeth; she was as stubborn as they came, and now was not the time for stubbornness. "Sancia, take father's book and go — now! — for me, please," he ordered, guiding her form toward the small window on the back wall. He threw the small portal open, feeling the rush of cool spring air. "Please, San, I swear we will be together again." His expressive, golden eyes widened then narrowed in exasperation, in urgency for her to listen to him. She always went her own way, with him in tow, but this time around, he was calling the shots. This was one occasion in which she wasn't going to get her way with him.

"NO!" she snapped back, pulling away and moving back toward the center of the room. The voices grew louder, closer from outside. She was too afraid to leave him, too afraid she'd never see him again, to hear his warm voice or his jokes that only she understood. She gave up so much for him; he gave up his life as a musketeer for her, and she wasn't leaving. They were even in sacrifices, and she would be damned before she let him add another marker to the list. He was her brother. He was the only family she had left and the one person she truly loved. She would give her life for him without a second thought. Because she loved him, Sancia couldn't will herself to flee without him.

With his one good arm, he dragged her back to the window, pushing her against the wall underneath the room's only exit. "San, don't make me beg you. Take father's book and go. I won't be able to make it far, but you can." He paused, swallowing hard. His good hand came up, cupping her cheek. His thumb stroked the side of her face that didn't bear the black mark from when Vesey struck her and then Siroc wiped her tears away. "You can escape and you can find my friends. They 'will' help you, San. Please, trust me. I will see you again."

Her hand came up, covering his with her own tiny hand. With a huff, she hugged her brother and kissed his cheek. "Sirocco," she said, breathlessly and afraid she was losing him forever. Her face contorted as if in pain, taking in every aspect of his pale, drawn face before she turned and climbed through the open window. Her hand reached in, grasping for his. Finding what she sought, she squeezed it tightly. Their fingers slipped apart slowly, as she cherished every second that they were connected, and then she rushed out into the darkened night. Her chin quivered uncontrollably as tears careened her face.

Siroc spun back around when her fingers finally disappeared through the window. He caught himself on the bed once more as the rest of the room spun with him. He took a deep breath, inhaling deeply to center himself as he went for his weapon. He pulled the blade from its sheath, holding the musketeer's weapon at ready and moving to the middle of the room. This blade had become his life, a life the musketeers had given him. And now, he would protect himself with the very weapon Duval had presented to him with when he joined their ranks — it was a symbol of what his life had become, of what Duval had given him. Siroc would be eternally grateful to the man who was like a father to him.

Although he could barely stand and his pounding head sought to take him to his knees, he would not yield against the force coming for them. Any moment, those men behind the voices verbally assaulting his friend would be in the same room. For even now, Siroc knew they were at the door and his heart raced like an Arabian stallion. He brought his right arm up. He felt hindered by the fact his left arm was strapped tightly to his torso to prevent movement, but nevertheless, when he finally saw the face of the Cardinal's captain staring at him with devilish eyes, his appearance conveyed one thing: He wasn't going without a fight.

On the hearth of the fireplace, Jacqueline sat, her ankles crossed but still. Her hands gripped the edge of the stone, eyes on the floor. She had told them the tale, beginning with what she stumbled across — Siroc on his knees, clutching his sword and blood flowing from his shoulder — and ending with her leaving them in Brother Antoine's care. She shuddered at times, recalling the scars, his silence even with the heated blade pressed to his back. They were all things she conveyed to them, hoping they could answer the question that burned in her mind — why?

But it wasn't a question that her companions could answer either. D'Artagnan leaned against a post, arms crossed, face expressionless, while Ramon sat in a chair, his legs elongated out in front of him. His expression was stoic. As he chewed the inside of his lower lip, his lips curved down in a severe frown.

"We have to get them out of Paris," d'Artagnan finally said, shifting his weight and pulling away from the post. One of his best friends had been hurt, and he couldn't just stand by and do nothing. The arrogant side of him wanted to go after Vesey here and now, but the rational side of him wanted nothing more than to gather some of Siroc's things, fetch him and his sister and the five of them flee to a realm where Vesey could not touch his friends. He knew he would go, and he hoped that Jacqueline and Ramon would follow suit. He didn't want to go anywhere without them by his side — especially Jacqueline. "As soon as Siroc's able, we'll get him and Sancia out of the city."

"They cannot stay in France, d'Artagnan. If they stay in the country, they will still be hunted," Jacqueline interjected. There was truth in d'Artagnan's words. They did have to get them out of Paris, but that alone would not be enough. Her heart ached at the thought of losing one of her friends, of never seeing him again. It reminded her of what it felt like when Gerard left her.

"I still think we should tell the capitanee, mis amigos," Ramon chimed in, sitting erect in the chair from his elongated, slouched position. "Duval …"

"Tell me what?" the captain's rich baritone demanded from the doorway. His jaw was set. His face revealed the anger and frustration that engulfed him the entire night. His friend's son was under his nose, and now he had lost him as quickly as he found him. It tore at his heart, making the pain of Donatien's loss echo in him again.

All three musketeers jumped up to attention, stiffening at their commanding officer's approach. "Nothing, sir," d'Artagnan responded first, lifting his chin as he spoke — the same gesture he always used when he was hiding something. There wasn't anything out of the ordinary, nothing at all, and d'Artagnan kept repeating that idea in his mind as the captain stared him down, hoping his father's line, _'You never could lie convincingly,'_ wouldn't escape the aged musketeer's mouth.

Duval slammed the tip of his cane against the floor, making the trio jump. "If you three know where he is, I suggest you tell me now," he yelled sharply. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. They had only seen this expression once before, when he revealed what he knew about the king's older brother. It was the face of a man with depth and emotion. This face feared, felt frustration over what was transpiring around him and out of his control. "Just tell me he and Sancia are safe," he intoned, almost begging as he relaxed his tense posture, "that, that 'man' does not know where they are at."

The look on his face was too much for the female musketeer. No one deserved to be left with so much pain, with uncertainty about someone he or she cared for. She would not leave him in anguish, even if logic told her she shouldn't because it would put her captain in the middle of their unlawful deeds. "They're safe, sir," Jacqueline answered in her mannish voice, relaxing slightly, and not flinching when the captain's gaze shifted from d'Artagnan to her.

His head tilted to the side in a questioning gaze. His face held no anger, but changed to a look of relief. Duval opened his mouth to speak again, but his words never escaped.

From behind the captain, a burly lieutenant stood. "Sir, a message has arrived," he informed him in as deep of voice as would be expected from such an aged and robust man. He extended his hand, offering the parchment to his commanding officer before exiting after a quick nod from Duval.

The captain unfolded the piece of paper, his face tensing as he read the words. When he finished, he sighed, cursing under his breath as he crumbled the piece and then threw the parchment to the floor. "Leponte, I believe you spoke too soon. Siroc is in custody," he hissed through gritted teeth. His anger was not meant for his musketeers, but the old soldier was at a loss at what he should do now. He had one choice, a choice he decided when he heard the newest recruit speak the Marcellus name. He prayed his king would see his side, that Donatien had been a good man and not a heretic, and that his children did not deserve the life of slavery.

"What about Sancia?" Jacqueline asked unbridled, forgetting to guard herself in front of Duval. She fought back tears that threatened over Siroc's capture. All she had done for them this night was for nothing and she had just lost a brother. The thought was unbearable; her throat choked.

He shook his head. "They haven't found her," he answered, grateful for this small blessing. He straightened his back, raising his chin and putting on a brave face. "You three are confined to the garrison until I can sort this out. Don't tell me anymore and do not worry about Siroc. I have every intention of speaking to the king first thing in the morning." He took a deep breath. "All will be well," he forced out breathlessly, unconvincingly.

The looks on their faces said it all. They would stop at nothing to free their friend, and he would do the same. Did he mean his orders? Yes, he did. They were for their own good, to keep them out of trouble while he dealt with the situation through legal means. Would he be successful? Only God knew the answer to that question and only time would reveal the answer to him. But for now, he had to focus on what he needed to do.

He didn't wait or give them time to respond. With shoulders sagged in defeat, he marched from the inventor's laboratory. He couldn't help but feel lost, that things would never be the same. Having lost dear friends and children once, he would fight long and hard before he ever sacrificed them again to the likes of Vesey.


	17. Chapter 17

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Seventeen: Propositions**

The dawn came but did not bring sun. The sky was black like coal; storm clouds blocked the warm yellow light craving to shine down on the earth, to make the flowers grow in the season of rebirth. Like a wounded heart bleeding, the clouds poured, drenching the world in hopelessness and despair. Gusts of wind ripped through the streets, forcing the trees to bend and sway.

What would the day bring? Bitterness, truth, ordeal? For the musketeers, an inventor's laboratory never seemed so small, so empty and cold. Like a tomb, like the catacombs of old, the room held an eerie air. The silence was unbearable, deafening even. The still ripped at three hearts, turning and twisting until tears formed in the female musketeer's eyes and her companions' eyes misted as well. Rage, determination, and sometimes a glimmer of hope dared to surface within. But one look out the window, at the storm raging outside, and what little aspirations they held died. Not once could they find a feasible plan … not without disobeying orders. And all three were two steps away from doing just that, but they had to give their commanding officer the time to resolve the matter through his majesty — proper channels first, and only then … A plan brewed in the fair one's mind.

What would the day bring for a captain no longer in the prime of life? He forwent family, a wife and children. What love he had to give was presented in soldierly fashion. He had taken in Siroc when no others wanted the vagabond; he had seen the potential in the golden eyes of a young boy. From the start, Duval was intrigued with the wayward child, giving him more than he did others and ignoring protests from some of the officers over his kindness to a filthy heathen child with no manners — but those were their opinions. Duval saw much more in him. It was why he had asked him to join the musketeers when he discovered Siroc's creative side, his smarts. The boy had been too young to enter the academy, but as captain of the garrison, he waved such formalities and had been rewarded every day since.

It made sense now, his connection to the boy and now the man. His best friend's son, thought dead, but never forgotten. Not a day went by that he didn't think about his friend and Donatien's family. Duval was set in determination to protect Siroc and his sister now that he knew they were alive. But he had failed. First thing that morning, he went to his king only to be told that despite the king's fondness for the blonde musketeer, a slave was a slave. Had Siroc acted appropriately, the young king would have overlooked such things and let him stay in the musketeers a free man but not offer the same freedom to the blonde's sibling. His majesty would do nothing. _'If only …'_ the captain thought before tossing back a cup of bourbon and wondering how on earth he was going to break the news to the three men who claimed Siroc as a friend.

What would the dawn bring for a blonde woman whose brother was stolen from her again? Anger coursed through her, setting a fire and making her blood boil. She watched the comings and goings of the garrison most of the night from the safety of an overhang in a nearby alley — but even that didn't protect her from a wall of water rolling from the rooftops. She waited for the right moment, shivering, to seek out her twin's friends. He had told her to go there, that they would help. But as shaky as her first encounter was with the Spaniard and the legend's son, she still was not sure what to do. _'Perhaps Jacques,'_ she thought, making a decision although she longed for a rapier to take care of it all herself.

What would the day bring for a runaway slave that called the garrison home? Since he was taken from the sanctuary of Brother Antoine's room, he had lain on the floor of a dark, dank cell in the Bastille. His shirtless, shoeless form shivered in the cold, but in his dreams he was safe. In his dreams, Siroc was at home in his laboratory, concocting something for the better of mankind. His sister rounded the table, laughing at one of his sarcastic jokes that only she caught and left his friends puzzled. His light, rich laugh echoed her higher chime. For a moment, he saw the way his life should be. Then his eyes opened and the reality of the situation hit him. He was back in hell.

The rain came in a torrent, as if the gods of old screamed for redemption. Sancia shivered in her corner, praying for a break, praying for warmth and praying for her brother. Each minute set her anxiety level one notch higher. She growled as she crossed herself, but not because she was cursing God. With one foot in front of the other, she began to move to the outer door of her brother's laboratory — the one on the backside of the stables. Without a doubt, she risked everything coming back here, but the garrison was where Jacques was. Sancia wasn't fool enough to think she could do it herself — as much as she wanted to be Siroc's savior.

She slipped around the side and peered through the recently replaced panes at three souls. Sancia grumbled to herself. Her brother trusted them, but trust was a hard thing to come by, especially the older Sancia got. Two of three, she did not trust, especially after the way they met. But one…

Her timing couldn't have been anymore fortunate. The Spaniard and the Frenchman exited after a few words with their companion. This was her chance to speak with the feminine one alone. Her fingers found the handle and popped the door from its resting place. It drifted open with a small eek sound. She stepped into the warm dry place, grateful to be out of the freezing rain. She was chilled to the bone, drenched straight through from head to toe. A drowned rat looked better than this petite blonde.

Lost in her mind, Jacqueline stared into the fire. She had only nodded at her friends' words. Duval had sent for them all, but she'd push it if she could. She didn't want to leave the fire. For some reason, she felt safe there. The female musketeer could still see her friend stretched out by it with a book in his lap, lost in thought. She wondered if this is what he thought about, if recent events were what he feared. He could not be lost to them forever, but her stomach twisted into knots that he just might be. He was lost to her like her Gerard was lost. Her brother was a world away and now Siroc was. The life of a slave was world's different than that of a freeman. But then again, everyone was a slave to something and she was a slave to her emotions right now. _'I never should have left them,'_ she thought as she took a deep sigh. Her emotions were about to lead her to a dangerous place.

"Jacques," Sancia called softly, her voice hoarse from her exposure to the elements. The heat of the room ignited a coughing fit in the blonde, silencing any further remark.

"Sancia!" Jacqueline almost shouted as she jumped to her feet. Her lilted voice carried on the air. She moved to the fair-haired female as if she had wings for flight. A hand went to the other woman's shoulder as if to check her over. Her eyes searched frantically for any sign of injury. So much had happened that verbal reassurance wasn't enough. She had to know, though the words followed her search. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, j-just cold-d," Sancia stammered out, her teeth chattering and head bobbing up and down. Spotting the fire, she moved in an almost single-minded fashion toward the warmth. Her hands extended and her body relaxed slightly as she soaked it all in. "Where is my brother? Where did they take him?"

Jacqueline followed, but not closely. Her back tensed and she replaced womanly fear with the tough exterior of the male sex. She grabbed a cloak as she passed by one of the tables, whose cloak it was she didn't know — d'Artagnan's, Ramon's or even Siroc's. It smelled like everything else in the room, hay and smoke. She wrapped the cloth quickly around the shorter woman's shoulders, and then took a step back to give Sancia space. "To the Bastille. We were waiting on word from the captain. D'Artagnan and Ramon just went to speak to him."

Sancia spun around to face her companion. Her tiny, pale hands came up to pull the cloak tighter around her. "What are we doing? Are you going to get him?" Her words came out in a flood. Her golden eyes burned with fear and determination. She would go herself, with or without aid. She would die before she let him rot in a cell in the bowels of hell.

"No," Jacqueline said softly, hardly believing that she of all people was accepting the restraints her captain put on her. She and her friends had a habit of bending orders to make things happen, to make sure justice was served. Siroc deserved justice more than any man, but for now, she was bound by her chain. "We've been ordered to stay here."

"What?!" Sancia barked. Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Her shivering seemed to stop and a wave of heat rolled off her form. "Why not? He's your friend!" she growled out, stepping closer to the musketeer. "He swore I could trust you! He said…"

"Calm down," Jacqueline interrupted, gesturing with her hands for silence. The door to the laboratory was partly open and the last thing they needed was a crowd gathering. Sancia was as hunted as her brother, and Jacqueline wasn't about to loose her to the wolves, even if she was yelling at her. "The captain is trying to get him released," she reassured, placing her hands on the other woman's shoulders — the way d'Artagnan always did to her when he was trying to get her to calm down.

Sancia shrugged out of the soldier's touch. She hated to be touched by anyone, especially when she was agitated. "And if he can't?" she demanded. Her teeth clenched as her jaw muscles tightened. She didn't want to think about 'what ifs' but they kept plaguing her mind like a disease.

"He will," Jacqueline countered, lifting her chin in the air. She put on the same brave face that took her through last night's storm. "The captain will not let anything happen to him. I — I think he knew your family. He won't just sit by and let something happen to one of his musketeers. Duval would rather take punishment himself than feed a good man to the wolves."

"I'm not just going to let him sit and rot!" Sancia protested again. Her wet hair whipped as she spun, looking for anything she could use to aid in her plight. She was just as good with a rapier as any of these musketeers. If they wouldn't go for him, she would.

"Neither are we," Jacqueline bit back the way a man would to a woman, stopping Sancia from rummaging and making any more noise. As a musketeer, she was bound by orders to stay put and do nothing until her captain said otherwise. But there was something else that crossed her mind, something she rarely did except in extreme circumstances. This was getting to be one of those times. "I have — a, uh — plan," she continued, "Just trust me and be quiet before someone hears you!"

"And what would that be?" Sancia scoffed. "If you wait until they move him, if you wait until Vesey sells him — and believe me, he will sell Sirocco — there is no way a musketeer will get anywhere near the auction." Her hands found the curvature of her hips.

"You're correct but it won't be a musketeer that goes after him," Jacqueline countered in a tone that couldn't be construed as anything but female. "Would you just trust me, Sancia?" she said softly. Her green eyes bore into the worried, fire-lit eyes of Siroc's sister.

The slave's arms dropped back to her sides. Her chilled form quivered again, but she showed no sign of tears or breaking down. Clear thinking was what she needed. If she did wait until they moved him, if the captain couldn't secure his release, then she could get the rest of her family as well. It would be two birds, one stone, and one large blow to her master's gut. "Trust isn't something that comes easy. I just hope that …" Her words stopped mid-sentence as her eyes darted to the door and the sound of footfalls neared.

Jacqueline's head spun around, following Sancia's eyes almost simultaneously. "Quick, over here," the musketeer directed, putting her hands on the other woman's shoulder once more to guide her to the only corner that she could possibly hide in. "Over there, down, throw the canvas over you," she ordered before dropping herself back by the fire.

Two forlorn figures crossed the threshold, retaking their seats from earlier. Whatever the news, Jacqueline could tell it wasn't good. The captain failed; it was written in d'Artagnan's brown eyes as he locked them with hers. A part of her knew that whatever happened next would be up to her, but she still wanted confirmation. "What did he say?" she queried, reverting back to the masculine façade.

Ramon's lip twitched with the anger he felt. Every muscle burned within. His Spanish blood boiled to the brim and his fingers instinctually went to the hilt of his weapon. "El Capitanee is defeated!" the Spaniard hissed, drawing his newest friend's attention. "They will sell Siroc tomorrow — like a dog. I'd like to …" his voice trailed off into a string of Spanish expletives as he paced around the room, arms flailing.

"What?" Jacqueline asked, almost barking in shock. Her eyes were wide that they would sell him. She didn't expect Siroc to come out of it without some sort of punishment, but she truly thought the king would grant him clemency for all his work in his majesty's service. And then something else clicked and she voiced one more cause of shock. "Tomorrow?" Jacqueline asked, directing it at the Frenchman as she tuned out the words she didn't understand from her older, foreign friend. Ramon was hard to understand when he got into a tirade.

"Tomorrow," d'Artagnan repeated. He crossed his arms and sighed. "The one stroke of luck we seemed to have in this mess is that the auction has been postponed until this storm passes. Most likely tomorrow." The Frenchman was as upset as the others, and although he was often hot-headed and the first to go into battle, he also saw the reason of waiting — until dark — and then he, alone if need be, would be going after his friend. He'd do anything for them.

Jacqueline glanced over to the canvas covered corner. The weather bought them one more day, and it was just enough time to do what they needed to. There was no pressure to act this instant. She could think through the details, and then she and the blonde woman hidden in the corner would act. No one would suspect the musketeers; they wouldn't be discredited. Mazarin only needed an excuse to persuade the boy-king, and she had no doubt the beast of the man would play every card in his robes.

Truth be told, though, as afraid as she was of hurting the musketeers, her make-shift family, she was more afraid of d'Artagnan. She knew how he'd react to her risking herself. But she would need him and Ramon in the shadows while Jacqueline Roget walked in the light. "One more day then," she said with effort as if she were calculating some finite thing. She took a deep breath. "Good, because I have a plan to propose." A small smile crossed her face as two sets of brown eyes looked at her with hope. The female musketeer glanced to the canvas. "Sancia," she called softly, "I think it's time we get your brother."

A golden head popped out. The female twin had much to tell them — or Jacques anyway. As far as she was concerned, the others would be along for the ride.

The power of love was not something easily defined. It drove most to uncontrollable madness and to do things that the mind thoroughly refuted. Going after his sister alone was probably one of the brashest things a young inventor ever did. But Siroc was a man of passion driven by the dreams of impossible things. His task last night had been simple: Save Sancia and flee with the one remaining member of his family. No matter how he sliced it, he couldn't fathom where he went wrong. He had seen it all in his head — everything except the flintlock.

Sweat beads dotted his brow. His face was ashen white. Siroc swallowed hard as he rolled his head to look at the door through his partially closed eyes. The light from the torches flickered through the small portal in his door. The slit had been left open, but for what reason, Siroc couldn't comprehend. Usually, they were closed to bar the prisoners from the outside world. Somewhere beyond the solid oak door, voices carried, but not in the traditional sound of spoken words. The words came across broken and muffled. Not even by straining his ears could the blonde decipher the fragmented tone. It didn't last long before the sound was replaced by heavy footsteps. Thud, thud, thud, they moved imperiously as if they knew where they were going.

The noise ceased before his door and Siroc scrambled up. He back-pedaled his legs until he sat in a small pile of hay and his back was pressed against the cold, stone wall. His head swam and for a moment, he thought he might pass out again. Slowly, the door opened with a long, drawn out squeak. Three figures stood before him, backlit. Their faces were dark while their silhouettes glowed from the torchlight. The color of their clothing was unmistakable though. The man in the middle wore a long, red robe, and the forms behind him wore the uniforms of men in his Eminence's guard.

A chill ran through the young man and he swallowed hard. He was in hell and the devil had arrived. It felt so eerily familiar, of a night he tried to forget. The last time he had been in such a cold place, hurt, this man was there too. He never did see his face, but the voice was unmistakable, unforgettably. It was why he easily sided with Jacques to fight the evil that threatened their country. Until their vow, he had kept his opinions of the serpent to himself, fearing that if he revealed his hatred, it would reveal him for what he was. But it was clear to all now what Siroc was — a runaway slave, a Marcellus and the son of heretics — There was no more need to hide. He braced himself for all this man would deliver.

The two guardsmen came forward, taking the injured man by his arms and dragging him to his feet. Siroc's left shoulder screamed from the unwanted touch, but the sound never manifested itself vocally. The blonde was stronger than that and he wasn't going to break down now while he was in the lion's den. But unlike Daniel who faced the lions with faith in God, his only faith was in his friends. The man of science had given up on holy things since his parents were taken, save the occasion of asking his pious friends for a brief consideration when they spoke to God. There was a way out of it yet — either through his own ingenuity or that of his brothers-in-arms. A small smile edged his lips and then quickly disappeared. His sister wasn't as silly as most took her for either. There were times even she could out think him and the genius was counting on it.

With what strength Siroc had left, he lifted his eyes to stare into the dark orbs of the so-called spiritual leader. The blonde's golden eyes burned like flames. He wanted to pass out, sleep until all the pain that racked his body was gone, but he was like his father. Had Siroc seen his father's last moments in the face of this man, he would have been proud — for Donatien's resolve was just like his now. Truly he was his father's son.

A spiritual leader should be pious, humble and shepherd his flock. His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin, was hardly that. His place was a seat of power in the age when the Catholic Church viewed the world as 'ordained' by it. The right of kings came with the backing of the church, although even some of its power had slipped away in the later centuries since its founding. This man clung to power just like one of Siroc's static socks after one of the blonde's tests.

The Cardinal offered a sardonic grin as he examined the boy. Dressed only in his britches, the genius was hardly the man the prime minister was used to seeing. His bandages were bloody; his hair was wild instead of combed back. It gave him a disparaged look instead of the intelligence, confidence — _'arrogance'_— the inventor usually had. But as the Cardinal's mind took in his appearance, he quickly corrected himself. The arrogance and determination that angered his Eminence to no end was still there in the young man's eyes.

Mazarin's lip twitched, and he clasped his arms behind his back. His chin rose, giving him his own haughty airs. "It's a shame to see you in such a state," the 'holy' man started, pausing briefly to scan him once more. "Slavery is a hard life, even on the strongest of —"

"I'll live," Siroc interrupted. His voice was hard and curt for multiple reasons — first, the man he was speaking to; second, because the stress on his body was manifesting itself in the form of a sore throat on top of everything else.

If looks could kill, Siroc would have died just then. The Cardinal was not pleased at being interrupted. He hated the impudence of this boy who was just like his father. But he brushed it aside, maintaining a pious exterior. "As I was saying," he continued a bit hard, but still semi-friendly — after all, Mazarin wanted something. "It can be a hard life." He smiled broadly, trying to be friendly, but it only served to send a chill through the inventor. "I have a proposition for you."

Siroc took a shallow breath, toying over what that proposition could possibly be. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. He had a feeling he knew what it was. The same Mazarin always seemed to be after — his help. The prime minister had once offered him his own laboratory, fully stocked. To any other man, it would be a dream come true. But Siroc wasn't a fool. He knew what Mazarin would use his creations for and that wasn't the point of what he did. He did for the sake of doing, not to cause harm. He cleared his sore throat. "And what would that be, your grace?" he asked, keeping his expression stoic save the hatred burning from his eyes.

Mazarin began to pace the tiny cell, taking only a few steps before he had to spin again. "I once offered you your own laboratory at the palace, fully equipped with everything you could possibly need." He stopped pacing. "That offer still stands. Join my guards, continue with whatever endeavors you like, and in exchange, I shall secure your freedom and—" He paused, letting his emphasis on the word 'and' linger for a moment "—your sister's." If his eminence read the younger man right, he would do anything for that blonde girl the inventor claimed as kin. If he was right, Siroc and his mind would be his. He'd love to see how far the boy's comrades would get in interfering with the Cardinal's business without Siroc's keen mind.

It was an offer almost too good to pass. All he had to do was agree and the nightmare would be over. It was a simple word, but it weighed so much. He would do anything for his sister. He swallowed hard. Could he say it? No, he couldn't agree to do something like this, betray his friends and betray his parents' memory to work for a man that was the devil in the mask of man. "My sister is already free and where I end up is where I end up," he said softly but with conviction. He had to have faith in his friends. Jacques found him the night before, and they would all find him again. Sancia would bring them, because he had sent her to them.

The Cardinal's body stiffened and his chin lifted once more. A dark cloud passed over him, giving him the same fierceness as the storm that raged outside. "I suggest you not be too hasty." He offered Siroc another sardonic smile, counting the seconds until he had what he wanted. Without this man, it was improbable the other three would get in his way any more.

"Yes, boy, better the devil you know than the devil you don't," one of the guardsman spoke up. The subordinate was greeted with a look of death for the leader of his regime.

For the first time, Siroc smiled and the anger in his eyes faded to amusement. He never thought much of the men in red. Most of the time they were as arrogant as their leader; over-eager to fight like a bull; and spent too much time pampering themselves to look high-ranking and 'perfect.' It was all sugar coating to hide the filth beneath. He couldn't help but be amused that the man had actually had the capacity for truth. "Well, your Eminence, it seems one of your henchmen actually got something right—" Siroc's smile grew into a broad form and then departed as quickly as it crossed his face. Most days he wouldn't dare speak to the Cardinal with such contempt or with a blatant insult, but who could resist? He was already in hell, what was one more spin on the spit over the fire. "—you—are—the devil." He emphasized each word to make sure his feelings were known. He barely breathed the last words before one of the men holding him up punched him hard in the side just beneath his ribcage. The inventor fell to the floor, gasping.

A low menacing growl erupted from the leader of the Knight's of the Black Tabernacle. "Suit yourself, boy; come tomorrow, you'll be on the block, sold and be one less thorn in my side … and they'll do the same to your sister. Perhaps they'll sell her and she'll be some man's personal — whore." He said the last part slowly, laughing when the boy growled in return and jumped at him, only to be restrained by the end.

What Siroc wouldn't give for a rapier, a way to drop this man where he stood. Adrenaline coursed his veins. He hoped his faith in his friends was warranted. Somehow he knew it was. Through Mazarin's own discourse though, he revealed that the auction had been postponed one day. It was one more day to figure out this mess. "We'll take our chances," he quipped darkly. _'One more day,'_ he thought, savoring it and letting the one tidbit feed his soul.

"Suit yourself; you had your chance. Perhaps, I'll just buy you from 'your' master. After all—" He leaned forward, putting his face in the blonde's "—we are 'old' friends." The Cardinal gave the boy a smug look. After the mess the night before, he knew exactly who this boy was. His father was as much a thorn as the boy was. "You should have burned with your parents," he added for measure. He flashed a look to one of the two men, receiving a nod in return.

Siroc's character was about to be tested.


	18. Chapter 18

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Eighteen: The Plan**

When Sancia was a child, she knew no fear. The spirited girl would stand out in the middle of a field while a storm rolled forth across the sky with her arms outstretched, as if daring it to conquer her. Years of slavery had dampened her will to protest, to face the storm. Fear held her back now, but at the same time, thoughts of her brother gave her the courage to face three musketeers with the same intensity as the current weather.

Sancia's gold eyes burned with passion and she held her head high as if she was the confident girl of her youth. She paced her brother's laboratory, while the others sat around her, and she articulately voice what she learned since arriving in Paris and what she suspected was the root of their problem. It stemmed to her father and the events surrounding their parents 'execution', that was of course if her father was the musketeer her master feared. She spoke of her brother's sacrifice at the monastery, only wavering a bit at the memory of his face when he begged her to save herself. She told them of the children and her fellow slaves, the latter being sold because they knew as she did about the true identity of the children he sold into darkness. They were the offspring of nobles, some murdered, some discredited, but all of the small souls had family looking for them. The inventor's twin knew of at least a few who were kidnapped, but by now, she was certain that they were believed dead. Unfortunately, she lacked the proof to take care of her wretched master immediately, but with the musketeers' help, perhaps another road would be traveled.

With a loud intake of breath, Sancia finished her story. These three men knew more about her life than she ever revealed to anyone, at least the pieces that pertained to the current situation. Her eyes drifted from man to man when she finished her moving. There was no backing down now. She needed their strength to conquer a demon and free her twin. "So, was my brother right? Will you help me," the slave queried. Her lips pursed, forcing a frown to cross her face. She knew she had 'Jacques' on her side, but the other two were still a mystery. When she looked at them, she saw typical men, nothing noteworthy. The woman desperately hoped they would prove her wrong and rise above her shallow expectations of the opposite sex.

There were some things in life that were romantic and worthy of poetry, and then there were the tragedies that reminded a person of the strength that could be found in their fellow man. The Marcelluses' struggles were tragic. Their tragedy was hardly poetic, but perhaps by the end of the twenty-four hours before them, their story would find its way into an epic — one with a happy ending if the Spanish musketeer had any say in the matter.

"You had but to ask, Senorita Marcellus," Ramon said in a tone that stated he would rise to any challenge. He offered her a courtly bow in his typical dramatic style as he finished his words. It was a sign of his submission to her will and a sign of his pledge to do what needed to be done. He and d'Artagnan had acted brashly toward the woman; it was time to make amends — even if their earlier actions were in service to a friend — and work toward the greater good. Her struggles were against those who sought power at the cost of innocent lives. The Spaniard always believed in equality and the rights of those who weren't in power. He worked for king, country and the people who followed France's monarch, and not for those who defied laws just to get one step closer to their goals.

"It goes without saying that you have my help," d'Artagnan echoed his friend's sentiments. Every muscle was tense and screamed for him to act. A tinge of fear haunted him like a ghost in the darkness. It whispered what-ifs regarding the future of his friend. The caviler side to him loved every chance he got to be a thorn in 'his Eminence's' side. But the chivalrous side to him only wished to turn the tables on the red garbed demon to help the innocent. His friend had sins like any man, but far worse crimes had been committed against the two siblings then could ever taint the inventor. If Sancia was correct and Mazarin was somehow involved with all the misfortunes of her family and her master's side operation, then the Frenchman wanted to be right there to see his downfall. That is, of course, if they could tie him to the children. More often than not, they were left short-handed with only his minions in custody.

"So, what's the plan?" the Gascon continued before finding seating on one of the smaller, nearby tables. His favorite accommodations were still in pieces on the floor. "I don't think one of us walking in with Sancia, pretending to drop off a prisoner, will work again, Jacques," d'Artagnan finished sarcastically. He leaned back and placed his hands on the table behind him; his head tilted ever so slightly, considering the female soldier. They needed a plan of action but not one that would lead to trouble. She had used the 'pretend prisoner' tactic before, and it turned out beautifully. However, since then the guards were weary of musketeers bearing gifts, particularly a certain quartet of privates. There was no way he was going to go along with anything that didn't put him in the forefront of action — to free Siroc and to keep both women from harm.

Jacqueline glowered and crossed her arms. "No, I have something else in mind," she shot coldly, perturbed that he brought up that particular incident — especially given the current circumstances. Besides, she wanted to forget about it and the English king. She had made her choice to stay in France, to strangely enough stay with d'Artagnan. He at least was a man she could trust, who valued his word. Her features softened, and she dropped her arms back to her side before sitting down on the hearth. "But I doubt you'll like it," she continued.

She knew d'Artagnan well enough to know he would object, and that it would leave her open to three more souls knowing who and what she was. It was inevitable that she would be discovered. Today, in regards to her friends, was just as good as tomorrow or even a month from then. Just because he didn't wish to face the truth, didn't make it any less real. Besides, some things were worth risking. Her life for Siroc's, it seemed like a fair trade should something go badly. This was what family did for one another. They sacrificed. It was what Sancia did for Siroc and him for Sancia. It was what Jacqueline did for her father and brother, and what she would do for her new brothers. She cleared her throat. "There is no way a musketeer is getting near the Bastille, not when they are holding one of our own. However, today is laundry day." A smile crossed her decidedly feminine face. "And a woman could get in."

"I do not think Senorita Marcellus would make it that far, Jacques," Ramon said. His face contorted with confusion. It didn't make sense to risk one for the other when their ultimate goal was to see them both free.

"I'm not sending in Sancia — at least not alone," Jacqueline said slowly. Her eyes flitted between her friends and then to Siroc's sister, wondering if any of them understood what she was driving at. As her eyes fell back to d'Artagnan, she found her answer.

"Absolutely not!" he resounded, jumping up from the table. "Don't even think about it!" The Frenchman wasn't about to loose her on top of his other friend. Jacqueline was one of the best swords he had ever met, but she was more to him than a comrade-in-arms. She fulfilled a place within him. It was fool-hardy for her to even dare risk herself.

"Why not?" Jacqueline countered in her lilted voice, dismayed. "It's fine when it suits your purposes." One of her brown brows lifted, emphasizing her point. It was true. If d'Artagnan needed use of 'Jacqueline', he would have her dress in that persona. But now, when someone else needed the lady, it was completely out of the question. The female musketeer would never understand what motivated a man, even if she dressed like one every day.

"I can't ask you to do that," Sancia said softly from her side. 'Jacques' had her reasons for dressing the way she did, for fulfilling a man's role. In some ways, the blonde could see how it would be easier. A woman had to worry about all sorts of atrocities when they lacked a man's protection, but dressed as a member of the opposite sex, such things were not feared. Men had the power, and this pair had none — at least by law.

Jacqueline's green orbs flitted back to the blonde. She considered the woman for a few moments, wondering if she understood what Sancia was implying. But the truth shone in her hazel eyes. "I'm willing to risk it," the musketeer intoned, speaking slowly to emphasis every word.

The entire conversation felt like a rather fast-paced game of tennis during some royal function to the Spanish musketeer. Words and emotions flew through the air. Although a master of words, nothing his companions said made sense. "Wait, wait, wait, am I missing something, mis amigos? Where are you going to get another woman?" The Spaniard's brow furrowed and he grumbled in his native tongue.

Although furious, d'Artagnan stifled his objections with a resound 'humph' sound as he crossed his arms childishly. He always knew that Jacqueline walked her own path, but this was one road he certainly didn't want her to travel. Deep down, he knew she was right. He too would walk into the lion's den if fate deemed it his path. Jacqueline risked just as much as Sancia though, and the brunette would be executed if she were caught. Where she wanted to go, he couldn't protect her and that scared him the most. He didn't want to let go of his dreams of a future with this green-eyed musketeer either, who inspired so much within him. But there were just some things he just didn't have a say on; there were some things that he just needed to let take their course until the storm could be ridden out. At least he would weather this one knowing that Jacqueline Roget was as much more capable with a sword then any man d'Artagnan had ever come up against.

The Gascon took a deep breath and then released his arms from his postulated pout to grasp Ramon on the back. Typically he would let Jacqueline tell who she chose, however there was no getting around what was coming next. He found the woman's eyes, seeking permission however. Finding his answer, he told his brother-in-arms the secret he shared with the farm girl. "Ramon, you know all those times you were 'wondering' about uh — 'Jacques'?" He stopped and cleared his throat, before finishing flippantly. "You were right."

Ramon raised a brow as he glanced at his friend and then at the newer member of their ranks. There was always something different about 'him', but a part of him thought 'Jacques' preferred…well, not women. "So then you are…" The Spaniard started, but didn't finish. His usually articulate tongue couldn't wrap itself around the word it sought.

"A women?" Jacqueline completed for him, a bit nervous about his reaction. She thought her other brother would take it better than this when she finally decided to tell him. Previously, she had imagined his great, courtly bow and Ramon teasing her about being a sister-in-arms. She realized it was nonsense for her to think in such a way. Most men would be disgusted to have a woman soldier at their sides. Her heart began to pulse in her ears as the moments ticked away in silence. All it would take is one word from either Ramon or Sancia to send her to the execution block. The thought made her heart palpitate.

"Gracias!" the Spaniard finally pronounced with his head turned skyward as if directing the line to God. Ramon's shoulders sagged as if a great weight had been lifted from them. The dark-haired man let out a light laugh just as a smile erupted across his face. His eyes fell back down to his shorter companions. "That explains so much, mi amiga, and I'm glad, because I thought that I was loosing my mind." He paused briefly, letting the newfound revelation sink in. He liked the thought of 'Jacques' being a female, mostly because it explained so much about his newest friend. "But if you are not a 'Jacques'," he queried, "then what 'is' your name, senorita?"

D'Artagnan and Jacqueline both visibly sighed with relief when their friend finally broke his silence. For a moment, if only a brief one, d'Artagnan contemplated having to help Jacqueline escape. The Gascon knew and trusted his friends, but at the same time, he had often wondered how they would take having a woman in the ranks. Much to his relief, the Spaniard lived up to the Frenchman's expectations and Jacqueline's as well.

"It is Jacqueline Roget," the farm girl said softly, letting the words expel on a breath of air. It was such a relief to not have to hide herself from this friend. Ramon might see the world through an artisan's eyes, but he was still astute. Hopefully, him knowing her secret would be an advantage — one more person to help her. So much had been laid at their feet already and they still had much more to come. Jacqueline didn't need to worry about her future in the musketeers in addition to dealing with what Sancia had told them, freeing Siroc and finding someway to make it all right in the end.

Sancia, thus far, had remained silent while the little scene unfolded before her. Even she sighed with relief over the foreign musketeer's reaction. She didn't know these men; she barely trusted them, but she did know it took a good man to see a woman as more than just a woman — a wife, mother and in some cases, property. It did bother her however that this woman hid herself and was willing to risk it all for the sake of her brother. "I've seen the posters," Sancia interrupted the moment of camaraderie, "You're wanted for murder." The blonde paused for a moment; her lips pursed as she tossed the last word over in her mind. This woman may be wanted for murder, but Sancia had done some less-than-honorable things in her life as well. Whatever the circumstances, they were not extreme enough for the Frenchman to turn his back on her. For now that was good enough for the slave. "It was one thing for a musketeer to risk 'himself', but you have just as much to loose as Sirocco and I do."

"I agree with, Mademoiselle Marcellus, Jacqueline," d'Artagnan piped up, re-crossing his arms. He was grateful he had someone on his side. "You could use the guise to get you in, but then what? You don't have a key; you don't know where they are keeping him?"

"I, too, must agree, mi amiga," Ramon interjected. He crossed his arms in a stubborn stance that mirrored the one d'Artagnan took.

Jacqueline rolled her green eyes. "As you both know, I can take care of myself. Besides, I have it worked out." A smile lit her feminine features. Her eyes seemed to sparkle with content over the plan in her mind. "Today is laundry day — as I said. Sancia and I will pose as wash women. We'll hide rapiers and a flintlock in the loads we carry in. After we're in, it will be just the small matter of finding him."

"'And'—" d'Artagnan interjected poignantly "— getting the cell open without a key. You forget, last time, you had the guard's help. How are you going to get the door open without the key? Pick the lock?" He raised one brow as if challenging her to refute the truth behind his questions. Unfortunately for d'Artagnan, this was a battle Jacqueline would not relent to. Their conversation continued, leaving the other two people to decipher the argument the best they could.

Being at the sidelines of many of the soldiers' conversations, Ramon let his mind drift. There was no way he was going to get a word in edgewise while they discussed the finer points of the plan. "It's too bad we do not have that liquid Siroc was working on. Then you wouldn't need a key, mis amigas," Ramon added off-handedly. It was a good idea, but an after thought over the invention Siroc had destroyed his sanctuary with. At the time, he didn't think much about it, but now, it would definitely be handy.

"What liquid?" Sancia queried, speaking quickly and tuning out the heated conversation next to her. She took a step closer to the tall man, letting her guard down a bit. The blonde still fought the desire to pull a rapier and show him the true uses of the weapon for calling her tripe, but at the same time, she was going to have to let her guard down further if she was going to work with these men — and woman. The slave would have to let the past die in order to accomplish their mission. She had a feeling the answer to one of their dilemma's floated within the poet's mind.

"Your brother, he made an explosive liquid, senorita," the dark-haired man informed her hesitantly. Ramon had known Siroc long enough to know when an idea was brewing. He saw the same glint in her hazel eyes that sparked in her brother's just before he locked himself in the laboratory to create yet another invention. "It is what destroyed all of his equipment in here," he finished.

"Do you have his notes?" Sancia asked just as quickly as the last question. An explosive liquid sounded like something her brother would make. He always did like creating things that made no sense to anyone but the members of the Marcellus family. An explosive liquid could be dangerous, but at the same time it solved the key problem.

The bickering duo fell silent at the sounding of the second question. They hadn't paid much heed to the conversation going on next to them, after all, they were involved in one of their verbal banters, and d'Artagnan was determined to win this one. The plan had its merits and was the only way they could think of getting Siroc out. Unfortunately, they had a few more aspects to deal with, but even those problems the female musketeer had the answers to: Ramon and d'Artagnan would cover for 'Jacques', while Jacqueline and Sancia sneaked in to the Bastille. Their counterparts were to inform Captain Duval over a possible 'situation'. The children in questions were not to be sold at the regular auction. According to the slave girl, they were to be sold on the side while the main 'stock' was auctioned in order for Vesey to 'rid' himself of them without being caught with them. The last thing this slave dealer needed was to be caught with kidnapped merchandise, especially when that merchandise was the offspring of the young king's loyal supporters. Ramon and d'Artagnan's task was to find them and get them to safety, while the women did the same for Siroc. The catch to this little scheme was that once freed, Duval would have to wait for confirmation from Lyon and Marseille. But with the 'kidnapped' in hand and their word against their enslaver, the captain could present everything in such a way that would at least 'halt' any action by Vesey. Their king could not turn his back when the proof was standing before him.

"The notes on what?" d'Artagnan interrupted the second conversation. His quizzical brow creased slightly more at the tick of each second before his questioned was answered.

Ramon glanced from the lady to the Frenchman. "The explosive liquid Siroc was working on a few weeks ago, mi amigo," he informed them before answer the slave's question. "They would be in one of the notebooks, on the shelf, if they weren't destroyed," Ramon finished, gesturing toward the shelves. They were relatively bare except the books their friend re-shelved.

Sancia's eyes flitted in the direction the tall musketeer gestured. A surge of hope rushed through her. Her brother was smart and clever, and always managed to come up with things — even when they were children — that left her in wonder. Although her mind wasn't quite as creative as his in dreaming up schemes, she could easily put something together and make it work.

Without another word or second thought, Sancia quickly crossed to the volumes and pulled several down into her arms. Within those volumes lied the inner-workings of her twin's mind. Her brother may not be present to help them, but at least his thoughts were. "Help me look for them," she ordered as she returned, handing each a book. "If his notes are complete, I should be able to recreate it," she confessed as she took a seat on the hearth to search. Her fingers flipped through the pages as her eyes skimmed the fluid writing.

Dumbfounded, the trio took their books and then stared at the petite woman as she found a place to sit. A strange feeling washed over them as if Siroc were sitting there hunting for something rather than his sister. Her words, her movements, her determined focused reminded them of him. It was not a feeling they wanted to go away. The only scary part:

_'God, save us. There are two of them,'_ d'Artagnan quipped silently as he watched her. He sighed and took a seat on the small table to start his own search. But before his eyes averted from her, a warm feeling filled him. It was not the warmth he felt when he looked at Jacqueline, but instead a well of hope and knowledge that they had just found the light in the midst of the storm.


	19. Chapter 19

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Nineteen: A Good Challenge**

In the dark realm of the Bastille, night and day meshed into one. The eerie sound of water dripping echoed around the stone apartments of its prisoners. Damp hay permeated with the smell of rot and mildew, assailing the senses with its pungent scent. It reeked like death, the end of all, and in one dark cell, the body of a boy rested in a heap, bruised and physically alone.

With a low groan, Siroc opened his eyes to view the darkness that replaced his life. His head raged with pain, and for a moment, the blinding throb behind his eyes was all he knew. He winced and groaned as he slowly slid up the wall to a sitting position, assessing the situation once he erected his form out of the disgusting bedding. His body trembled; his eyes blurred in the dark. Pain was all he knew and all he could feel; yet his mind still found a way to push it all aside.

Once adjusted, his eyes stared into the darkness. His mind toiled over the last few days, all that he felt, all that had been reveled and all that was left to loose. The blonde had family in the form of his twin, in the form of his brothers-in-arms, and in the form of a straight-laced captain. He was not one to give up without a fight. He, after all, bid his time like any good solider. A sickly-mischievous smile slowly rose up on his lips. For all that he was — the son of a wealthy landowner and a former slave — they were but two titles he held. For five years, thanks to the confidence of Captain Duval, he was now first and foremost a musketeer, and a brilliant one at that.

Early on, Sirocco Marcellus learned the trick to getting out of any mess was just to be prepared. From locks to swords to flints, the boy always had a knack of turning a situation around — sometimes to save his sister from a beating; he'd of course take that himself. But that was all in the plan to keep her safe while shouldering the brunt of what it meant to be the 'male' Marcellus. There was another habit he picked up, and that was where to hide the things he'd need when he found himself in a tight spot. Boots, even pockets were easily checked, which was why he found other places to keep his 'tools'.

With his one good hand, he rolled up the leg on his pants so that the inside cuff was visible. Using his fingernails, he pulled out the threading, letting the tattered edges of the fabric fall until he created a big enough hole to pull out of the small metal tools hidden within.

Sancia stood in front of a table with a pair of spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. Her eyes narrowed as she slowly and precisely worked the materials before her. Her brother might not have had much left in his little laboratory, but there was enough — and good enough notes — for his twin to work with.

A low growl erupted from her throat as she expertly tried to fill a vial. With the distillation complete, the only thing left for the slave was to prepare enough for her and Jacqueline to use on their adventure. That was, of course, if her brother's friend didn't kill them beforehand. "Senor de la Cruz, I suggest you stop fidgeting and step away from the table unless you would like a reenactment of what Sirocco did to this place," she ordered in an even tone without even looking away from her work. The task needed her attention, and the Spaniard was beginning to be distracting with his constant hovering.

Immediately, Ramon jumped back, stiffening a bit and mumbling in Spanish. This strange woman was a combination of one of his dearest friends and the quirks of the female gender. The tone and expression were eerily like her brother's as she chastised him away, to the point it sent chills down the older musketeer. But the green dress she donned beneath Siroc's leather apron served as another reminder that this was indeed not his friend. "My apologies," he finally expressed. Crinkling his brow, he mirrored her expression to continue watching, but this time from a less 'hazardous' position.

With slow movement, Sancia lifted the stopper for the bottle off the table top, sealing the explosive liquid within the small container. "There, that should do it," she said, more to herself than her companion. "Now, all I need is a dropper and we'll be ready to go." She nodded her head definitively and then finally drew her eyes away from her work to examine the foreign musketeer. The slave tossed him a honeyed smile. "Those guards won't even know what hit them."

"Good, you can use all the help you can get," d'Artagnan shot as he came back in the door from the hallway. Jacqueline trailed just behind him, dressed in a ragged blue dress. A sense of uneasiness coursed through him. His jaw constantly clenched when it was not moving to respond to a remark. His feminine friend was risking herself. _'Honorably,'_ he noted, but still foolhardily. He could not protect her where she was going, and that disturbed him most of all. Seeing her dressed the way she was now only made matters worse. He could hide his heart most days when she looked the part of a brother.

Jacqueline hardly looked the part of a solider for the journey before her. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and pinned beneath a cloth cap. A chemise covered her shoulders with a blue, synched bodice laced up the front. Her skirt matched the bodice and a cloak flowed down her back. She looked like a farm girl, a washer woman, a commoner — the part she was meant to play.

A roll of her eyes and a helpless sigh were the only outward signs of Jacqueline's exasperation as she moved toward the window. A quick glance revealed that, for the moment, the sky was clear. But in the distance, dark clouds loomed and thunder sounded to announce the approach of another clashing downpour. Jacqueline pulled up the hood of her cloak in anticipation of the adverse weather. They still had some time, but it, like the blue sky above them, would fade like night into day; they would have to leave soon for their guise to hold merit.

Her green eyes drifted to d'Artagnan, who had stood back to watch Sancia work. The Gascon had no qualms about making his objections known while she changed in her room behind the screen. Jacqueline was set in determination. This was the path God gave her. It was not a task she would refuse nor would she sacrifice Siroc for her own safety. However, something ate at her. What she first mistook for male arrogance shifted to something else entirely. They were constantly at odds with one another, but one thing remained the same: He always put her above himself. It was a noble act… _'Perhaps,'_ she considered briefly, before letting the thought drift away. She would explore those thoughts later.

"We should be going then," Jacqueline addressed Sancia. "The sky is turning and I'd prefer the weather be on our side." Her lips pursed to a thin line.

Having secured the dropper for the vial, Sancia had already removed the leather apron and set to work pulling her locks up beneath a cloth cap. "I just need my cloak," the shorter woman announced, "and a rapier."

"The weapons are hidden in the laundry bags, along with a change of clothes for you and Siroc," d'Artagnan told her as he rose. His arms crossed in front of him as his eyes shifted from woman to woman. "I still don't like this plan of yours," he took one final shot, moving within reach of his comrades.

"You worry too much, mi amigo," Ramon countered, moving to d'Artagnan's side to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. Although he shared the same concerns about two 'wanted' woman walking into the Bastille, he knew that Jacqueline could defend herself and had become acquainted with Sancia's skill — he still had the mark on his abdomen to prove it. "They will do their job and 'we' shall do ours. That slithering snake of a man will not know what hit him, si?"

"Sure," the Frenchman relented half-heartedly. His eyes never left Jacqueline's despite the jostling of his shoulder. Would it be the last time he looked into them? Would it be the last time he saw her face? The questions disturbed him, but what disturbed him the most was how much he cared. He had known for some time that she sparked something in him; he only hoped he would have the chance to show her one day everything he felt, and maybe have it reciprocated.

Jacqueline picked up the laundry bags, handing one to Sancia. Catching d'Artagnan's eyes, she fidgeted ever-so-slightly. A tingling sensation rushed down her spine, adding to the odd air the female sensed from her friend. It drove her to reassure him, to reiterate that she would be fine. But this time the desire wasn't out of annoyance over his objections. "Once Sancia and Siroc are safe, I will return," the brunette told him, emphasizing the last three words. Her eyes glassed ever so slightly, revealing the emotion within.

D'Artagnan inhaled sharply as he watched her face soften. She hid so much from him, but on rare occasions she betrayed her heart in her eyes. "Just be careful," d'Artagnan resounded one final time. He reached for her hand, squeezing it gently with his.

"I will," she countered softly and then let her hand slip from his. Only then did she let her eyes return to the Spaniard and Sancia. Ramon was just finishing getting her situated with her cloak. Jacqueline nodded at Ramon as he threw her a radiant, yet reassuring smile. There wasn't much left to say or do. She and Sancia were about to be on their own. Each duo knew their parts. It was now just a matter of following through.

For almost three hundred years, the Bastille stood at the edge the eastern edge of Paris. In medieval times, it served as the city's defense. The four-and-a-half story building, not far from the Place des Vosges, was surrounded by a moat and overlooked the Fauborg St. Antoine and the Marais quarter. With its eight turrets, thick outer walls, the Bastille was a fortress to be reckoned with, and its strength only added to the dark air created over the last half century.

Since the reign of Cardinal Richelieu, the once 'royal' fortress served as a state prison for the upper class, those convicted of high treason, religious prisoners, writers of seditious or sexual material, and even young rakes 'committed' by their families – for their own protection of course.

The Lettre de Cachet, the letters of the royal seal, gave the fortress its dark reputation, because the letter was often used for ambiguous arrests. Despite the reputation, the upper class prisoners often lived comfortable lives within the fortress towers. Servants, visitors, as well as personal furniture and attire made life within them comfortable.

But not everyone shared the wealth and station of those treated as guests, more so than prisoners. And for them, life within the Bastille was much different. These prisoners were held in the infamous cachots – the cold, subterranean cells infested with vermin. Damp, unloving and unforgiving, these were the cells that struck fear within the citizens of Paris, and it was here that Jacqueline knew Siroc resided.

She had traveled within the depths before, sometimes with a pass on cleaning detail because they managed to annoy Duval endlessly, and once with the King of England to rescue someone else close to her heart. How could d'Artagnan not think she could do this? She knew this place better than most musketeers.

Jacqueline took a deep breath as she came to halt on the Rue de St. Antoine. They were close to the drawbridge that led into the Bastille. Her heart raced within the way it did whenever she sparred or faced battle. The farm girl was used to the sensation to the point she hardly noticed the thumping against her breast bone. "There," she gestured, pointing at the crowd starting across the bridge. "Those are the servants we'll be following in. The guards do not stop anyone this time of day, especially if you're a woman or dressed as a servant," she continued, sharing where the idea for her plan came from.

Sancia nodded her head once. "We should hurry then. It'll be safer if we continue with the group," She returned before glancing skyward as the dark, distant clouds began to black out the sun.

After exchanging two weak smiles, the woman moved into line with servants crossing the wooden bridge. With each step, Jacqueline began to realize how fast her heart raced. With each step, she guessed whether she could hide the distress developing within her form. She kept her head down, while Sancia did the same. She kept her mouth shut and breathed a sigh of relief until she heard a deep, masculine voice call, "You!"

Jacqueline stopped in her tracks and turned around, preparing for the worst. She was hyperaware of Sancia continuing with the leaders of the group, while Jacqueline stopped with several other women behind her – all trying to figure out who the guard addressed.

"I told you yesterday not to come back!" he barked, walking toward Jacqueline. Her eyes widened in horror as she waited the physical attack she was sure was coming. Her jaw tightened and her hand on the laundry bag clenched. Her weapons were there if she needed them, but if she betrayed her position now, she'd never get to Siroc. She couldn't let that happen, not now, not after so much work and planning …

The burly, red-clad man grabbed the girl standing directly to the musketeer's left – much to the woman's relief. "Go on, get!" he shouted at the others still gawking at the man, now dragging the woman back across the drawbridge. "I see you here again, you won't be leaving!"

The words, 'Go on,' were all the others needed to hear to move with haste through the large, enforced doors. White-faced and hands shaking, the brunette rushed past the other women heading across the courtyard toward the towers and the cells of their masters. "Sancia," she called softly through clenched teeth. "Sancia," she tried again, afraid that the blonde had done something stupid while she was delayed, until a hand pulled her aside.

"And I thought this was going to be a challenge," Sancia quipped. She flashed a smile, but only to hide her own anxiety over the entire situation.

"We don't have him yet, Sancia," the brunette shot. "We still need to make it through the courtyards and across the second drawbridge." She dropped the laundry bag and took a deep breath to compose herself. Kneeling down she untied it, fishing for the flintlock buried deep within. Finding it in the midst of the linens, she withdrew the weapon and dropped it into the makeshift pocket in the folds of her skirts. The cloak hid the bulk of the weapon.

"I know," Sancia returned, dropping her own bag. Her hands shook endlessly the entire way across the bridge. "I'm just … Do you know where he's at? Do you think we'll find him?" she inquired in an almost childish tone, emotionally overwhelmed. When it came to Siroc, her emotions often dictated actions.

"Since he isn't a nobleman, he should be in the lower cells. The main staircase is just inside that door-" Jacqueline gestured toward the secondary bridge and doors "-but I think the smaller one down the hall near the Tour de la Comte would be a better option," Jacqueline explained while she situated the laundry bag back over her shoulder. She would love to pull her rapier out already, but knew she wouldn't make it past the second bridge if she did. "It's primarily used by the soldiers and not guarded like the main stairway. There is, however, a locked door we'll have to get through if we go that way."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Sancia returned. The childish air began to melt away to that of the confident persona the slave wore boldly. "If his notes are correct, I can open any lock with the liquid."

"Hopefully without alerting every guard," the brunette countered; Jacqueline could not forget the sight of the laboratory after Siroc's first attempt, and she saw it 'after' her friends had cleaned it up. "Let's go," she added with authority and then started the trek across the courtyards, ready for any challenge.


	20. Chapter 20

SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty: An Impossible Task

A good challenge turned increasingly into an impossible task for Siroc. With only one hand to work with, his tools were worthless – almost. One he held firmly in his teeth; the other worked away in his right hand. Both scraped and scratched at the lock on the cell. It was tedious work that would normally only take moments by applying the right pressure on the small pins inside. He could hear the slight movement of those pins – _'or is it a rat?'_ – He could feel the difference in pressure, depending on where his tools touched. He was skilled enough on an average day to take the lock apart, put it back together and have no one be the wiser. This wasn't most days.

Today the inventor felt like only half a man, locked away in this abyss. His body ached to the point of numbness. His left arm felt dead from where the flint ball entered and exited. The fingers on his left hand felt like they had been replaced by sausages. His head raged to the point of blindness and it all served to irritate him into action. This blight would not trump him.

He grumbled slightly and narrowed his eyes to see better in the almost non-existent light. There was not a puzzle he could not solve; there was not an invention he could not master given time and determination. He had made man soar with the birds and swim with the fishes; he had sought the meaning of life after building what could destroy it. He was a man beyond his age, greater than time, and living for a purpose. Someday he would understand the purpose of all his father taught him and of all he had endured. Someday he would understand all there was to know – but that day would be his last. For as long as he breathed, he would never stop questioning, working, fighting for what escaped him, or in this case, for his escape. Nothing filled him with greater satisfaction than accomplishing an elusive task.

A smile lit his haggard face as a click resounded through the stone apartment, and the door opened with a soft 'eck' noise. The light from the hallway filtered through the now ajar door. Quickly, he put his tools in his pocket and peered out the slit. The light burned his eyes, causing him to blink away stars. But when those spots finally cleared from his vision, he could see the first few steps of a stairwell at the end of the corridor. He had no doubt that those steps led to freedom and back to his sister and friends.

In the sublevels of the Bastille's interiors, smoke billowed down the maze of passageways in lofty, black plumes from the orange-red torches latched to the stone walls. The narrow halls were warmer; the air was stifling from the thick, dark haze that stung the eyes. It was a change from the cold interior of the rooms that lined the walls. No beds or fires lay behind them; no warmth created from the blazing flames permeated through the thick wooden doors. It was like walking from summer into winter when crossing the threshold – It made the women who searched worry for their friend and brother and more so since they could not find him.

The two women carefully slid along the walls, peering around corners before they advanced. Sancia's soft voice called to each door, seeking out her brother. Farther they crept within the depths of the horrible maze to the point they wondered if they would ever find their way again to light.

It hadn't been a great deal of trouble to find d'Artagnan when they held him for he was not far from the main staircase. It was the same with Ramon – yet that was just a strange dream that haunted the female musketeer. When the capitan forced his sovereign's hand and had been arrested, his cell was on the main floor, sparse yet with a window. Jacqueline did not believe Siroc's would be so easy to find as his captors knew the reputation of his friends.

"You check there," Jacqueline whispered, pointing down another junction she wished to send the other woman. "I'll check down here."

Sancia returned her thought with a silent nod and then worked her way down another section of cells. Her lungs burned from the smoke's thickness down the narrow byway. For a brief moment she was eight years old again, locked in a cell much like these with her brother unconscious beside her. The memory sent a chill through her. She needed to find him soon.

The farm girl grasped her sword at ready as she moved in graceful, light steps. They had not seen guards for awhile, but the calls of those in pain echoed in this haunting place, making the keeper's presence known to those misfortunate enough to dwell here. She inhaled sharply as a chill came over her. _'Where is he?'_ she wondered, and then began to check the doors. "Siroc," she called; her lips almost pressed to the wood of one door. "Siroc?" Still no answer.

"Jacqueline," a feminine voice called in hushed tones. In the midst of this eerie place, it sounded otherworldly.

The Frenchwoman couldn't see more than the figure of the blonde woman, who motioned to her from the other passage section, through the haze of the torches. Sancia's hand waved, looking ethereal and blurry, but motioning for her to come. Feeling hope well, Jacqueline moved with haste.

"The door was open," Sancia said matter-of-factly. "It is the only door that is open."

Jacqueline shook her head. "I don't understand." She covered her mouth briefly to stifle a cough caused by the wretched air.

Sancia pulled the door open farther. "Look at the lock," she instructed, narrowing her eyes once more as she did to make sure she indeed was seeing what she was seeing. Her golden orbs watered.

Jacqueline knelt before the door; her fingers ran over the lock to feel the damage to the metal. "The scratches? The lock's been picked, but that doesn't mean anything. Everyone tries to…"

"My brother would have succeeded," Sancia told her point-blank. Her eyes never wavered. There were some things a sister just knew. "The scratches are fresh; at least they look that way."

There was no way to refute it, not the way the shorter woman was staring at her. Sancia seemed convinced that this was the place, this was his cell, yet no trace, save some marks, remained. "We still need to find him, Sancia," Jacqueline countered. Her trained eyes immediately searched up and down the hall to see if there were any places to hide.

At the end of one, almost out of sight, was a staircase. One well led down, deeper into the depths; the other side circled up, perhaps all the way to the top of the tower. There were locked doors, side passages leading from it as it curved its way to the top. There would be no place to hide if someone was to happen upon anyone trying to go that route, but it was the way she'd go if she were trying to escape. A smile crossed her lips as she gestured toward the well. "That way."

Sancia glanced quickly over her shoulder; she returned the smile and then dropped the laundry bag from her shoulder. She pulled out her rapier. "I think it's time we got rid of some of this." Quickly, Sancia tossed the contents of the bag into the cell, except for the items she and Siroc would need – a change of clothes and boots for him. She shut the door, holding the rapier firmly in her left hand, and tossed the bag back over her shoulder.

Within seconds, the two women started up the staircase, ready for whatever they may find.

It was but a day that Siroc was in the recesses of the Bastille, lost in darkness save the torch light sifting through the lock and door slit. He was weak; his head throbbed. Any other man would have lain down, but Siroc wasn't about to. Beyond this next door at the top of a winding staircase was the main level. Its hallways would lead to a courtyard and then the outer bridge. He had crossed it several times as a musketeer, once as a prisoner and soon as a free man. That very thought drove him. He had to get back to his sister.

He scratched at the lock, cursing under his breath at how much time it was taking. He could feel his heart beating, pounding out the seconds. His head felt light; the bit of daylight peering through the lock doubled briefly. He stopped his movement and sank against the wall, sitting on the steps. The cold sent shivers through him.

Up Jacqueline and Sancia went. The musketeer led, hoping she was right about where her friend would go. Sounds carried, most indistinctly, but with each the trained soldier threw up her hand to halt their progression in the narrow well.

"This is taking forever," Sancia whispered at Jacqueline's back.

"If you have any suggestions…" Jacqueline countered, annoyed. Her ears were still outwardly focused on the voices drawing near. "Right now, I suggest we move. Someone's coming up the well behind us."

They took the steps two at time and emerged at the level just below the main. Jacqueline recognized the hallway and quickly pulled Sancia through the opening and into a darkened corner off to the side. Their backs pressed against the wall; every muscle was held taunt. The male voices laughed heartily as they emerged from one side to enter the spiral up to the main floor.

The blonde swallowed hard. "Jacqueline, what if Siroc is at the top?"

Without a moment's hesitation, Jacqueline shot up the staircase with Sancia hard on her heels.

The sound of laughter woke Siroc. His tired eyes blinked and went wide when he realized what happened. Shaking, he slid up the wall, searching frantically for a place hide, but there was nowhere to go — only the door to the main level and the stairs that curved down behind him. He stood there like a statue, pressed against the wall while his mind worked. His breath stilled as the laughter stopped.

From behind the soldiers, the women came, moving fast and striking hard. Jacqueline shoved one from behind, cursing to herself when they both let off a shout. Her blade came up, connecting with the burly man's. His sheer size and the fact that he had the high ground made dispatching him difficult. For all her skill, Jacqueline still lacked the usual upper-body strength that came with the masculine sex, but true to all women, her legs were strong. They helped her hold her ground while he tried to push her down; instead she managed to force him up by attacking the man's footing.

Sancia faced an equally daunting task. It had been years since she fenced, although she still remembered the finer points. The tall, thin solider forced her back down the stairs and into the hallway. There was no hiding their intrusion now. The captives shouted as their jailers advanced on the short woman and her comrade. What she lacked in strength, Sancia made up for in speed though. With a quick side-step, she managed to come up behind him and slip back up the stairs to gain the higher ground. "Jacqueline!" she called a bit panicked.

A few steps up, Jacqueline kicked the guardsman forcing him into a sitting position on the step. He had nowhere to go and could only deflect the blows coming at him with an ungodly speed. His focus was so intense, he did not see the strike from behind that knocked him unconscious.

Just behind the slumped figure stood an all-too-familiar form. Siroc held a stone from the wall that had come loose after years of neglect. His eyes held no recognition for the woman wielding the blade with as much skill as his friends; what he did know was the voice he heard from the person with her. "Help my sister," he said hoarsely and then dropped the stone in favor of the guard's rapier.

Shocked at the sight of her friend, Jacqueline nodded affirmatively and headed down the few steps to help Sancia force the soldier back. "Your brother is up there; get the door open," Jacqueline commanded whilst mixing her blade with the pair's. She threw her weight a bit and gave the shorter woman the advantage she needed to step back and out of the fray.

Sancia hurried up the stairs. As she approached the top, the well blackened completely into darkness. "Sirocco?" she called, slowing her ascension to find him.

"I'm here, San," he said. His words came out muffled and mumbled because of his tool held between his teeth. He knelt before the door, still picking at the lock on the door that barred their escape.

Siroc's twin touched her brother's hair, letting it slide down until it rested upon a shoulder. She knelt beside him, feeling a strange calm despite the sound behind her. Although she could not see, she could feel what her twin was trying to do. "Sirocco," she told him at a whisper, still eerily calm. "I have a better way."

The scratching stopped and Siroc dropped the tool from his teeth. He glanced over his shoulder, curious at to what his sister could be talking about. A key would be splendid, but he highly doubted they had managed to pull it from one of the guards. He had already checked the one in the stairwell to no avail. Siroc growled lowly.

Sancia let out a soft laugh as she searched in the folds of her dress for the vial. "If this doesn't work … you have only yourself to blame," she told him with a bit of humor. "Now step back." She waited for her brother to move a couple steps down. Jacqueline was just around the corner in the well behind them; her blade still moved with an unmistakable noise.

Carefully the blonde opened the vial. She used the small dropper she brought to pull out a few drops, remembering what they told her about what Siroc did with the laboratory. Her hands shook as she put the vial into the lock. Her hand jerked back as it fell. A flash of light filled the well and the door popped open. "Jacqueline, let's go!" Sancia shouted when the fading light of day rushed in, hurting her eyes after so long in the dark. Immediately, she wrapped her arm around her brother and hauled him through the opening. It was the first exit on the way to salvation.

Hearing her name, Jacqueline threw a wild tactic and shoved the guards filing up the stairs trying to apprehend the intruders. The domino effect sent them cascading down the well like water over a cliff. She turned and sprinted up the stairs, slamming the door behind her although it would no longer lock. Searching her surroundings, she found the two people she sought moving with haste through the main corridor to the first bridge. Her blade remained at the ready as the trio ran. The commotion behind her was all the incentive she needed to keep moving.

As they crossed the bridge, the shouts from the few carried to the whole. Without thinking Jacqueline turned to view the bodies rushing toward them and then back to the blonde pair still hurrying toward the main gate. Within her dress was the second vial Sancia filled. Her hand clutched it as she debated her choice. A second later the glass flew through the air.

Jacqueline raced to put distance between her and the explosion that followed. Behind her, a storm of fire erupted. She could feel the heat at the back of her exposed neck and finally the force behind it that threw her forward. She landed in a heap, barely keeping hold of her weapon. Dazed, the farm girl shook her head, trying to clear her senses. She could hear nothing and hardly see through the thick black smoke that billowed around her and rose to the sky. She coughed hard several times still lost within shock. And then a voice reached her ears, familiar yet frightened.

"Jacqueline!" Siroc called from the far corner.

Brother and sister were staled in their escape. Sancia waved frantically in-between defending their position with marginal help from her brother. He was in no condition to fight, yet still he used the blade he picked up from the guard as best he could.

Without bothering to dust off the grass and dirt, Jacqueline was up and moving in the next moment. Her body ached slightly, bruised from being thrown, but she would deal with the pain later. They still had one more bridge to cross, with guards blocking their escape.

A soldier to the last, even as she moved Jacqueline formulated the next plan of attack. There was no way they were getting across the second bridge now that the alarm sounded throughout the prison. They need an alternate route, and there was but one she could think of. Reaching her friend, she immediately grabbed Sancia by the arm and pulled the siblings moving toward the edge of the courtyard that overlooked the river.

"Where are you going?" Sancia questioned, glancing back at what she thought was their only means of escape.

"Swimming," Jacqueline returned. She slowed her pace just enough to come up on the opposite side of Siroc from Sancia. "Hold on to your brother!" It was her last order before the trio went flying up onto the knee high wall and over into the Seine.


	21. Chapter 21

_For Jean and Daring ... without your subtle pokes, this one would have never come. _

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-One: Knowing Thy Place**

A roar sounded in the distance, bringing d'Artagnan's attention skyward. The dark clouds looming above were still too far off for it to be thunder. He scanned the cityscape, searching for that violent sound. He inhaled sharply as a billowing cloud of smoke rose into the sky. Only seconds later, he could hear the bells ringing, sounding the alarms at the Bastille.

The Gascon grabbed Ramon's arm, drawing his friend's attention to the smoke over the prison. "I hope they're safe," the Frenchman let slip out. His mind raced, replaying various scenarios as to why the Bastille was now engulfed in flame. None of them ended happily. He swallowed hard. His body ached to move toward the commotion and search out his friends, to know with certainty that they had made it out of the prison.

"Jacqueline can take care of herself, and Siroc and Sancia, mi amigo," Ramon countered as if sensing his friend's thoughts. One hand came up to gently squeeze d'Artagnan's shoulder and pull him from his thoughts.

D'Artagnan shook his head, forcing the disparaging thoughts from his mind. As apprehensive as he was about letting Jacqueline go it alone with Sancia, he knew it had been the right thing to do, the only thing to do. As musketeers, as men of honor, they could no more leave Siroc in the Bastille than they could let the children Sancia was trying to protect suffer in servitude. The blonde woman had left more questions for the Gascon than she had answered; but what he did know was that those children had family somewhere and those families supported his king.

For the sake of those young lives, d'Artagnan and Ramon had changed into civilian attire and managed to escape the military compound undetected after the women had set out on their mission. It amazed d'Artagnan how easily people came and went from the garrison, especially with everyone on alert because of last night's events and the forthcoming auction. He wasn't going to question their luck though, because it meant they were free to do what they needed to. But now … he wondered if perhaps Jacqueline had pressed her luck this time.

The Frenchmen's brown eyes widened, giving Ramon a mournful expression. "I hope you're right, Ramon," he said. He really wanted to go find them now.

"I am," Ramon returned with the usual confident air. "Besides, mi amigo, Jacqueline will skewer you for not following the plan if we try to find them now. We'll meet up with them later tonight like she said." His words were pointed. "You are worrying like a woman." The Spaniard's eyebrows rose quickly, daring the Gascon to refute him.

D'Artagnan grumbled. "Let's go, Ramon." He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the urge to go to his friends. His eyes stole two more glances at the distant flames before he flipped the hood of his cloak up. Begrudgingly, the Frenchman continued up the rue not far behind his brother-in-arms.

By the time the duo reached the Places des Vosges, the rain was lightly splattering Paris. Overhead, a bright flash, followed fifteen seconds later by the crack of thunder signaled the next round of the storms that had hit the city. The bodies that had filled the street, making use of the precious time between downpours, now sought cover where they could find it — in shops, in cafes or even pressed up against the buildings to make use of the small overhangs above.

The musketeers hustled into a series of barns that ran along the Vosges grounds. The gentry of this city section used them as stables, but for the purpose of the next few days, they had been converted into slave quarters. The weather outside had stalled the auction, but it had not stopped those wanting to view the merchandise from patrolling through the four buildings to peer at the stock. Under such pretenses, d'Artagnan and Ramon had entered the structures. They left their hoods up to shield their features from anyone who might recognize them.

Slowly, they made their way through the crowd of nobleman and wealthy merchants, or their stewards. D'Artagnan leaned close to his friend. "Who was it we were supposed to find?" d'Artagnan whispered, lest they be heard.

"Sinjon or Ciel, I think are who Sancia said," Ramon reminded. His dark eyes scanned the chained figures, huddling in the damp hay. He lifted a hand to cover his nose and mouth, hoping to stifle the stench of unwashed bodies. "You go that way," the Spaniard gestured with his free hand. "I'll look down here."

D'Artagnan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth and nose with it. He too was having problems choking down the disgusting odor of this place, but it also served as an additional shield for his face. "Ciel, Sinjon," he called softly as he slowly made his way past the slave stalls. "Ciel, Sinjon."

He paused within a small crowd, examining a mother and her child. Her skin was as black as night and her eyes nearly matched the hue of her flesh. Her downcast eyes held a sadness that pained any man with a soul, yet it did not phase the creatures that gawked at her like she was livestock. Thin, white lines marked the exposed areas of her arms; the markings of a Cat whip were unmistakable. The woman wasn't even granted the decency of proper attire. Instead, she donned a burlap wrapping that barely covered even the modest parts of her body; her child wasn't even offered that.

D'Artagnan fought back the bile rising at the back of his throat. _'Was this what Siroc's life was like?'_ he wondered briefly, but in that moment, he knew he would never let the inventor or his sister live this life again, even if it meant leaving France forever.

He took a deep breath through the filtering cloth on his face and continued to the next stall of slaves. Once more, he called the two names, but not loud enough for it to draw much attention. He kept walking when no one responded to the subtle inquires and tried again to no avail. He started forward again, but yielded when someone grabbed his boot.

The musketeer looked down at a feminine hand gripping the leather at his ankle. His brown eyes scanned from the hand, up the arm to the face of a woman in her thirties. Her hair was matted at one side, but otherwise drawn back away from her round features into a bun; her face was dirty, dry and worn with lines that aged her beyond her true years. Unlike the last slave, she wore a gray dress with an apron over the front of her bodice and skirts. She also looked as if she had enough to eat — most days. Her copper-brown eyes spoke of wisdom, yet held a flicker of distrust.

Mere seconds passed before the woman released his leg. When she did, the musketeer ducked around the stall and crouched down so that only wooden boards stood between them. "Are you Ciel?" he asked. His mind was on the conversation, but his eyes scanned for any sign of detection.

The woman shifted, sitting back against the stall wall she was chained to. "Yes," she answered, choosing to keep her words simple in the face of not knowing the man's identity yet.

"My name is d'Artagnan," the Gascon identified. "Sancia sent me."

"Sancia!" The woman's voice raised half an octave, drawing the attention of a gentleman close by, but only briefly. She held her breath until he moved along. "You are Sirocco's friend then, a musketeer?" She paused, but not long enough for her converser to answer her questions before adding another. "Are they safe, Sir? Please tell me they are safe."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth, but quickly closed it, unsure of what to tell her. To tell her that they faired well would be lie. He just didn't know the answer, only what he hoped to be true. He sighed, making a choice on the matter. "They are safe, madam." He chose hope. "Sancia sent me to find you. We need to know where the children were taken."

"I-I cannot say for certain, Sir," she told him, a tinge of sadness to her gentle voice. "After Sancia ran away, we were separated."

"Can you…" d'Artagnan's voice cut. Three men entered the far end of the barn, two of which he recognized as Vesey's men. He slipped deeper into the unoccupied stall, finding shadows to hide in. His back pressed to the wood. It wasn't until they passed into the crowd that d'Artagnan relaxed again. "Can you tell me anything about who took them then? Anything to help?"

"A man. He wore a uniform like a musketeer yet it was red. Black hair, slicked backed like the master's." She shook her head, trying to recall any other detail. "Someone called him, Captain, I think."

"Bernard," d'Artagnan growled with disgust. He should have known that Vesey would have the Cardinal's help in his endeavors. What dark deed wasn't the holy man involved in?

"That was it, Sir. Captain Bernard," she affirmed. "But I do not know where he took them." She turned, pressing her cheek against the wall. "Please, Sir, you must save them. I was born to this life, but them… they are like the twins. They were not meant for this life, they…"

"The twins?" d'Artagnan inquired, confused at the reference. His brow furrowed, creasing his forehead.

"Sirocco and Sancia, Sir," she answered. "They were not born to this life. Did they not tell you of their family?"

"Only a little, Madam." In truth, Siroc had told him nothing and Sancia only what pertained to the current situation.

"They were such sweet children." Ciel sighed wistfully. "I remember them from when I was the master's consort, before he destroyed their father, their lives. It is a pity I am but a slave, Sir, for I wish I could have saved them."

"What do you mean he destroyed their father?" More pieces of the puzzle fell together, but still not enough for d'Artagnan to see the picture of Siroc's life clearly.

"Monsieur Donatien, their father, he was not a nobleman, but he was of good family and wealth. He served as a musketeer long before the children were born, perhaps even before I. My master sought his cooperation when the nobility revolted against the young king after his father died." She stopped there. Tears formed on the edges of her eyes. It was as much her fault as it was Vesey's that so many lives were destroyed. Vesey used Ciel much like he used Sancia now. "Monsieur Donatien would not join my master. In fact, he had obtained information on the master and was prepared to take it to the musketeers. Vesey found out and destroyed the Marcellus family before Monsieur Donatien could take the evidence to a friend at the garrison. Alas, he and his wife were executed, for heresy of all things, and the twins came to me. It was Sinjon and me who cared for them, raised them."

"You knew all this, yet you said nothing?" d'Artagnan asked. As a musketeer and man of action, he found it difficult to fathom why anyone could stand idly by and watch a man like Vesey destroy people's lives. Briefly, pity for his friend filled the musketeer's heart, but d'Artagnan forced it away. It was the last thing Siroc would want, to be pitied. The Gascon took in a deep breath. He now knew why Siroc hid so much of his life from his friends. The inventor did not want to be seen as a former slave or a creature of pity, he wanted to be seen for what he was today. That was something even d'Artagnan could respect.

"Sir, I am but a slave," she reminded, as if it were the answer to all things. "My word has no meaning. Who would believe one as humble as I?"

There was no arguing with her logic. Slaves had no rights. She was powerless to save his friend in his youth, but at least she was helping to save him now. "Forgive me, Madam."

"I am not offended, Sir. I am what I am, but please, please protect Sirocco and Sancia. I-I am sorry I cannot give you more on the children, but you must find them as well." Her voice filled with the same agony that filled her soul. Her sins were great, and no amount of confessing, she was sure, would change her place in the afterlife. Ciel, like Vesey, had done too much. Her help was too little, too late.

D'Artagnan took another deep breath through the cloth on his face. "You've given me enough, Ciel. I thank you."

"Please, Sir, I require no thanks," she returned modestly. "If you are a friend of Sirocco's, then it is the least I can do." Thoughts of the little blonde boy as a child filled her mind. She smiled whistfully. She loved the boy, as if he were her own. "Sirocco is choosey in all things, particularly his friends. If you have earned his trust, I cannot deny mine."

With that, d'Artagnan crawled to the edge of the stall and then slipped back into the crowd before rising to his full height.

It wasn't until d'Artagnan was several stalls down that he spotted the commotion at the end of the long barn. The trio that came in while he spoke to Ciel stood in front of Ramon. He could see the Spaniard's mouth moving, spitting venomous words from the look on his face. His brown eyes almost glowed with hatred for Vesey's men. It was only a moment later that he saw the poet reach for the hilt of his rapier hidden beneath his cloak.

The Frenchmen uttered a curse as he set into a run. His right hand dropped the handkerchief and withdrew the musketeer weapon also beneath his cloak. The Gascon reached the fray just as the attack began, evening the odds a bit. His weapon came up to block a downward strike. He shoved the man back, giving him some room to scrimmage. He advanced, continuing to force Vesey's man back, when he caught the other two double-teaming Ramon. The Spaniard was slowly being backed into one of the stalls, no matter how he danced. Surprised murmurs swept through the onlookers.

D'Artagnan retreated a few steps to grab a bucket hanging on the wall, allowing his opponent the upper hand briefly. The Frenchman swung the bucket, forcing the man to jump to the side. It was the opening he needed to throw the make-shift weapon directly for one of Ramon's two. It smacked the sandy-blonde haired man right in the back of the head, sending him down to his knees.

Ramon took the opportunity to leap over the fallen man and side up with d'Artagnan. Behind them was the exit. Any other fight, both musketeers would have been more than happy to carry through to the end. But given the nature of their mission, they needed to be free to keep working. Not getting away before the musketeer and Cardinal's guards came to stop the fray would only hinder their investigation – one that was completely unsanctioned by the captain.

D'Artagnan ducked a slice at his head. He dropped down and kicked out, swiping the man's feet out from underneath him. He toppled back and to the right, knocking into his companion and taking him down as well.

"Ramon," the Frenchman shouted. He threw his arm in a wild motion, gesturing for him to get moving. They had to escape from the Vosges. The musketeers sprinted into the downpour and right into eight uniformed musketeers with their swords drawn. Thunder cracked above them. In the middle of the formation was the last person either one wanted to see.

"D'Artagnan, Ramon, what is the meaning of this?" Duval's booming voice silenced all, even the crowd. The soldiers had responded to reports of a disturbance in the stables, but instead the musketeer captain found two of his best men trying to leave in a rush. The day could not get any worse.

D'Artagnan put on an innocent expression as he sheathed his rapier. "Not a thing, Sir," he said, almost too happily. "We were just out for a walk." Inwardly, the Gascon swore like a sailor on leave.

"Si, Capitanee," Ramon agreed with his friend. The large smile enveloped his face, but slipped when Vesey's men came up behind them with their weapons drawn. Spanish expletives escaped under his breath. There was no way they were getting away with this.

"A walk?" Duval retorted coolly, eyeing the soldiers in civilian dress and Maurice Vesey's lackeys behind them. From the state of the three men, there was no doubt in the captain's mind what these two had done besides disobey his orders to stay at the garrison. He was madder than a hornet. "Then I'm sure you won't mind walking with us, under escort, back to the garrison." He glared at each of his defiant corpsmen. "Men, take d'Artagnan and Ramon's rapiers please." They had a lot of explaining to do, but none of it was going to be shared in such a public place.

Ramon was the first to relinquish his weapon, begrudgingly, while d'Artagnan hesitated just a moment too long for his captain. "Surrender that weapon, Private," Duval ordered in a stern voice. At his wits end and on shaky ground with the king, the man would stand for no further defiance from any of his men.

The legend's son growled as he pulled his baldric over his head and placed it in the outstretched hand of the corporal who had taken Ramon's weapon. There was no point in arguing or trying to convince the captain that their actions were innocent. They were caught; they had failed.


	22. Chapter 22

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Two: Unofficial Involvement**

Stiff and rigid they stood, like mighty oaks in the wind. Their hands grasped together at the small of their backs, and neither musketeer dared look directly at the captain of the ranks. The aged musketeer's voice boomed like the thunder above. His voice could shake a private to the core, any private that was except these two. They had stood there too many times before and knew the reprimand by heart.

D'Artagnan's eyes drifted to the Spaniard at his side, only to dart forward again at the thunderclap of Duval's cane striking the stone floor. It was then the legend's son started listening to his superior's exhalations.

"… disobeyed direct orders!" The officer stopped pacing. His lips pressed together as he eyed the younger Frenchmen. His voice softened as he continued. "I told you, both, that I would handle the situation with Siroc. By going to the Vosges, you have possibly jeopardized any sway I had in the matter."

"But, Sir," the Gascon tried to interrupt. His shoulders relaxed and his hands dropped to his side. His mouth closed quickly, though, and he returned to attention upon receiving his captain's icy gaze.

"But what, d'Artagnan?" Duval barked. "I told you to stay away from Vesey, his men, that auction and anything to do with this entire mess!" He smacked the cane against the floor once again before resting both hands atop the waist-high rod.

The private swallowed slow and hard. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips. D'Artagnan never could keep his mouth closed to save himself. "Um, technically, Sir, you told us to stay away from Vesey and the auction…" his voice trailed off.

"Si, Capitanee, but we were not near Vesey, and the auction had not started," the Spaniard interjected. He wore that slight half-grin that gave him an innocent air; it hardly fooled his commanding officer or friends, however.

"I don't want to hear it!" Duval thundered once more. Too much weighed on the man to deal with this duo with any sort of patience. With an exasperated huff, he walked slowly around his desk and slumped into the chair. His calloused hand slid across his weary features. Exhaustion beckoned him to take to his bed, but worry kept him moving. He had no desire to rest until he had found a way out for Donatien's children.

Duval inhaled deeply. His fingertips gently massaged his temples, before he let his hand fall to the desktop as if it were dead weight. His weary eyes drifted back to his subordinates. "Now," he said slowly, letting his fatigue slip through. "Which one of you wants to tell me what is going on, precisely."

D'Artagnan and Ramon quickly glanced at each other. The Gascon's lips pursed until the edges of his mouth curved toward the floor. He was reluctant to tell Duval the nature of their investigation for fear he would order them to halt it.

The Spaniard, on the other hand, shrugged quickly as if to say, 'why not?' They had already been caught violating orders. In all rights, their superior officer could confine them to quarters anyway. It couldn't hurt to reveal the nature of the Vosges visit, and perhaps gain his support.

D'Artagnan sighed when he saw the look on Ramon's face. He shook his head, but in the end relented to the pressure of being out-manned. "We," he started hesitantly. "We were investigating a report about a kidnapping, Sir." There, the truth was out, but would it bite him back?

"A kidnapping? Really?" Duval glared at the private. "On whose order are you investigating this 'kidnapping' and why are you out of uniform?" he demanded.

"We thought it best if musketeers weren't seen at the Vosges, Sir, after what happened last night." This time d'Artagnan spewed a half truth. They didn't want to be seen, but they were also hiding from members of their corps.

Duval leaned back in his chair. His chin dropped slightly and his arms crossed in front of him. "That answers my second question. Now answer my other question, Private, or I'll be forced to confine you both to your quarters — under guard." His voice grew progressively louder toward the end.

"We received no order, Capitanee," Ramon replied for his companion. "D'Artagnan and I were following a lead." He paused briefly, debating his next choice of words. "We knew you had other matters to attend to so we thought we would check it out and then report to you if it turned out to be true."

Duval closed his eyes and let out a small puff of air in exasperation. He was well past frustrated, angry or even impatient. No, the captain of the king's elite corps was worn down to his soul. "And who was the source?" he inquired. His fingertips returned to massaging his temples.

The duo stole yet another glance to each other before d'Artagnan answered the question with a sigh. "Sancia, Sir."

That caught the captain's attention. His hand fell away from his face, and he lifted his chin to bring his narrow gaze upon the soldiers before him. "Boys," he said sternly. "What does Sancia have to do with any of this?" He paused, rethinking his tone. He was desperate for additional news of the girl. Leponte had assured him she was safe that morning, but his uneasiness would continue until he resolved the situation. "Please, what is going on?"

The Frenchmen's eyes widened just slightly at his captain's request. The gruff soldier rarely used such pleasantries when addressing anyone under his command. There was no order to his words, only concern. The emotion was mirrored on Duval's face, which made both musketeers relax in his presence.

After a deep breath, and several moments of debating appropriate phrasing, the Gascon revealed to the older man what Sancia had shared with them: She knew that several children in her master's custody had been kidnapped; that they were the children of nobility; that she had asked them to find where Vesey had hidden them; and that the auction was a distraction and a way for the slave dealer to dispose of his problems.

D'Artagnan took another deep breath when he finished with the story, similar, but with a few more colorful attributions, to what Sancia had told them that morning.

Duval listened intently to every detail, waiting for the Gascon to complete the tale. "You found these slaves then, Ciel and Sinjon?"

"I found Ciel, Sir," d'Artagnan told him, no longer hesitating to tell his superior officer everything. "She confirmed that Vesey is using the auction as a cover to dispose of them. Ciel didn't know where they were taken, though; just that Bernard is the one that took them."

"Why would the captain of the Cardinal's Guard have taken them?" Even as he voiced it, he knew the answer to that question: The Cardinal was somehow involved as well. His hand slowly stroked his chin.

"We don't know that, Capitanee," Ramon spoke. "But he is our only lead, and we are fairly certain that we can find the children by watching him."

Duval nodded his head up and down in agreement. "I cannot sanction any official involvement in this investigation," he thought out loud. "But, I cannot ignore this report either." He hefted a sigh. "I'm sure, you boys, understand my dilemma in this. If you are caught again, I will have to disavow any knowledge of what you are doing, and it could mean the end of the musketeers. But if you find something, I will make sure it's taken to his majesty and it could work in the corps' favor."

"Then you'll let us continue, Sir?" d'Artagnan sought to clarify.

"Yes, I will, but I cannot emphasize enough that your involvement in this investigation is unofficial. The musketeers cannot be seen going against the king, and I've been ordered by Louis not to interfere further in Vesey's affairs."

"We will not fail you, Capitanee!" Ramon nearly cheered with his customary enthusiasm.

Duval waved his hand, gesturing for the Spaniard to calm down. "Yes, yes, Ramon," he said as if to dismiss the jubilant outburst. "I know you won't, which is why I'm going to trust your judgment in solving this matter. But I cannot stress enough how important and secretive you need to be in your means. It will be the end…" The captain's head jerked toward the door at the sound of a knock. "Enter," he called, forgetting the duo for the time being.

"Sir," Lt. d'Orsey acknowledged as he stepped before his commanding officer. He extended a small leather fold with several sheets of paper inside.

"Is this the Bastille report?" Duval asked. His fingers unwrapped the binding.

"Yes, Sir, it is."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the captain dismissed his subordinate and quickly skimmed the papers as d'Orsey shut the door behind him. What he read did nothing for his frayed nerves and temperament. The growl started low in his throat and quickly grew louder as he looked at d'Artagnan and Ramon, who were already back at attention. "Given your expressions, I take it that you already know the contents of this report," he shot, accusingly.

"No, Sir," they said in unison. Technically, they knew something, but not exactly what had happened at the prison. Although eager to hear the news, they were also uneasy.

Duval stiffened in his chair. "It seems Siroc has escaped from the Bastille with the aid of a woman believed to be Sancia and an — at this time — unknown woman." He sat there fuming, tapping his fingers on his desk. In his anger, he was quickly rethinking allowing them to continue investigating the kidnappings. Duval was hardly ignorant of their escapades, and he had no doubt they knew more than they let on. A certain foursome always did … His fingers stopped drumming as he realized that four of five were accounted for: D'Artagnan and Ramon before him, Sancia with Siroc, but where was Leponte? "D'Artagnan," he barked. "Where is Leponte?"

The Gascon cleared his throat. He silently cursed the turn of events, even more so because it could mean the end of their investigation if Duval got too riled. Given the circumstances, the legend's son did not want to lie either. He had done well giving his commanding officer the benefit of the doubt thus far; he at least could share another half-truth. "He's looking after Sancia and Siroc, Sir."

Duval arched an eyebrow. "Then you did know about this?" he stated rhetorically. "And the other woman, who went into the Bastille with Sancia?"

D'Artagnan quickly thought, recalling an excuse Jacqueline often used when someone who knew Jacques spotted her as Jacqueline. "Jacques' sister." He hoped Duval would buy it.

The captain stared at d'Artagnan in utter disgust at their foolishness. "At least Leponte had enough common sense to stay out of sight so this wouldn't be tied to the musketeers, unlike you two," Duval spat dryly. His anger abated as quickly as it rose. He waved his hand dismissively. "Now get out of my office before I change my mind and confine you to quarters like I should."

Ramon started for the door just a second behind his brother-in-arms. "Oh, and musketeers," Duval's voice halted them. They glanced to the captain who was now reading the report a bit more thoroughly. "When this is over, I think a month of cleaning the dungeons is in order to remind the three of you of the importance of following orders." He paused, letting his words sink in, before barking, "Now get out!"

When the door shut, Duval set the report down on his desk and searched for some parchment. He pulled out the quill box and ink and began to pen several correspondences. If he recalled, Vesey lived near Lyon and did a lot of business in eastern and southern France. He didn't know much about the man, but perhaps the commanders at the Lyon and Marseilles garrisons would have knowledge of reported kidnappings to help his regiment out. The boys didn't need to know of his actions, just in case the seeds in his thoughts bore no fruit.


	23. Chapter 23

_Thanks, as always, to Jean, for her help._

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Three: Where the River Flows**

The main artery of France was a force unto itself. Over the many centuries it snaked through the European continent, its waters had swallowed many lives — some in an instant, never to be seen again. The rain fell hard, pelting the surface of the river and adding to the expanse. Each droplet seemed to fuel its hunger and desire not to release the three bodies who struggled precariously at its heart.

Fighting the will of the choppy waters and the hidden undercurrents that dragged Jacqueline and Siroc below to silence, the female musketeer kicked and flailed her free arm. "Sancia!" she screamed above the deafening roar and thunder every time she broke the surface. One arm secured her wounded friend, who sputtered and coughed along with her. "Hold on, Siroc," she told him, and then screamed again for the blonde woman lost in the waters. "Sancia!"

"Jacqueline!"

The musketeer heard her name, but couldn't find the source. She kept moving toward the rocky shoreline, all the while searching for the light-colored matt of hair to bob above the surface. "Sancia!" she called again just as she reached out to grab a root protruding into the waters. She held tight although the current ripped at her and Siroc.

"San —" The woman never finished her cry. Something slammed hard and fast into her, dazing the brunette. She almost lost her grip on the root and Siroc upon impact. A split second later, she regained her senses and tightened her hold on both. She felt his body jerk and then settle back into her grasp. Jacqueline turned her head to make sure he was all right. As she did, water rushed into her open mouth. She spit and coughed at the assault. When Jacqueline had finally shaken it off, she noticed something else: His right arm was extended downstream, acting as a lifeline for his sister.

The inventor pulled as the slave girl fought to swim up to her brother and friend. Sancia took hold of the root just above where Jacqueline grasped the slimy rope. Being careful not to strike her companions, Sancia crawled onto the wet, slippery rocks of the shoreline. She gasped for air and brushed her tangled locks back from her face. The heavy rains made it hard for her to shake the water away. After recovering, Sancia turned back around and flattened her body against the ground. She reached out to assist her brother back to solid land, where he collapsed in a heap.

Behind him, Jacqueline used the root to climb ashore. As the pressure of the river was left behind, she could feel the toll her struggle played on her body. Every muscle ached and throbbed; she couldn't do more than crawl across the rocks, drop her weary body right next to Siroc and Sancia, and let the rain come down upon her. Droplets smacked her cheeks, forehead and chin, and then slid away as if they were silent tears.

When her fatigue began to abate, she rolled to her side to look at the two figures breathing heavily next to her. "Siroc, Sancia, are you all right?" she asked. Her eyes scanned the inventor beginning at his head and continuing down to the wound caused by the flintlock ball; across his bare, lithe chest, where new bruises marred the flesh; and down to his tattered pants and bare feet. She silently cursed over losing their change of clothes, her uniform and more importantly, their weapons to the Seine's will.

"I'm all right, Jacqueline," Sancia finally answered. She too examined her brother, but not just with her eyes. Her hand slid across his cheek; down to the burn scars, where Jacqueline had closed the wound the night before; and then lightly skimmed the new marks on his pale skin.

Siroc's hand settled atop of Sancia's appendage, stilling her examination. "We should get moving," he said weakly. "There will be soldiers looking for us."

Jacqueline nodded in acknowledgment and sat up. She scoffed, wishing the rain would stop. A shiver rattled her frame. If she was cold, no doubt Siroc was as well. They needed to get some place safe and dry, and now.

She stood, briefly cringing as her stockings squished in her shoes, and then assessed their location. The craggy shore around her would eventually form the river's ravine farther northwest of the country's capital before giving way to the rolling hills, marshes and cliff sides at the mouth south of Le Havre. As tributaries feed the country's mother river, the expanse from shore to shore would also increase. She knew this area well; she had spent her life not far from this very spot.

The Seine had taken them several leagues north of Paris before spewing them along its bank. Not too far up, a small tributary relinquished its life to the river whole; it was the very offshoot she grew up along. A league from the main artery, following the smaller vein, stood her family's farm. It was the closest, although perhaps not the safest bet, but the woman knew she had to risk it. They would never make it back to the city soaked the way they were and with Siroc barely dressed.

Jacqueline knelt down before the inventor. She unclipped her saturated cloak that somehow managed to stay with her through all the fighting and their flight into the river. After pulling it from her shoulders, she wrung some of the water out of it — for all the good it really did — and wrapped it around Siroc, who now sat haphazardly on the uneven surface of the bank. "I know it's soaked but it's better than you wandering around with no shirt," she told him as she clasped it around him. Her eyes focused on her fingers, not daring to look in his golden orbs. She wasn't entirely sure he knew who she was yet, and hoped to avoid outright telling him — at least for a while.

"Thank you, Jacqueline," he said hoarsely. His hand covered her hand at his neckline.

Jacqueline startled at the sudden and rather intimate touch. Her green eyes shot up to look directly into Siroc's. She stared for a moment, unable to understand what could be going on inside his head. "Siroc," she started, paused, and then finally asked, "Do you know who I am?"

A hint of a smile came across his lips. His head moved up and down in affirmation. "Leponte does not do you justice," he complimented.

Jacqueline blushed and averted her eyes. "You knew, and you didn't say anything," she observed aloud. "How long?" She returned his gaze when the redness subsided.

"Since I overheard d'Artagnan call you Jacqueline shortly after you joined the musketeers," he replied matter-of-factly. "He really should watch what he says."

His words made Jacqueline smile. She shook her head, finding humor in the situation, and then noted to herself to reprimand d'Artagnan later for his carelessness. "Come on," she started, changing the subject. "We need to get moving." She, with Sancia's assistance, helped the inventor to his feet. "I know of a place not far from here."

"Will we be safe there?" Sancia questioned. She wrapped her brother's arm around her shoulder to support his weight better.

Jacqueline did her best with his left side, wincing along with the genius when he placed his arm around her. "For the time being." Honestly, the female musketeer wasn't entirely certain it was ideal, but it was the best place for the moment. "Besides, it's better than staying out in this rain."

"I'd drink to that," Siroc interjected in the exchange; his tone was dry and even. He smiled again at the sound of Jacqueline and Sancia's soft laughter as they retreated from the water's edge — perhaps they thought he was kidding.

Although her childhood home was only a short distance away, the jaunt from the Seine to the cottage took several hours. Darkness loomed at the edge of the eastern sky by the time the trio crossed the threshold of the small dwelling. It was cold and dusty inside, but Jacqueline would always think of it as home.

The female musketeer and Sancia set Siroc down on the edge of her father's old bed. Their neighbor, and her father's friend, had secured anything of value from the Roget cottage after burying Claude Roget. What remained was a sparse space but enough to settle them for the moment.

She shivered as she moved about the room. The quiet chatter of her teeth was echoed by her companions' — the inventor especially. She knelt down at the end of a bed on the opposite side of the cottage and pulled a trunk from underneath the frame. Her fingers stroked the intricate carvings on the lid. Her father had made it for her. It had no real value in the world, except to her. After flipping the top up, she pulled out two nightshirts, her father's spare undershirt and several blankets. She didn't bother to close the chest before returning to them.

"Here," Jacqueline said, handing the nightdress to Sancia. "I'm going to gather some wood and build a fire. You can wear this while your clothes dry." She then handed her father's shirt to the girl. "Can you help your brother?" she asked, and then added, "It'll be a little big on him, but it's better than freezing."

Sancia nodded her head. It was all she could muster considering how cold she was. Siroc, on the other hand, looked like death. His lips were a strange shade of purple and his face had returned to the ash color it was after he was shot. "Thank you, Jacqueline," she finally forced out as the other woman headed out the door.

The blonde rubbed her hands together, trying to return the feeling to her extremities. When she felt them warm slightly, she removed Jacqueline's wet cloak from her brother's shoulders and rubbed her hands up and down his arms. He winced at her touch, so she halted her attempts. "Are you all right, Sirocco?" she queried. Her eyes quickly assessed his condition.

"C-c-cold," he stammered out. "T-t-tired." He forced a weak smile.

"Here, lift your arm," she instructed, and then methodically pulled the over-sized shirt onto one arm, over his head, and then carefully worked his wounded arm into the last sleeve. Sancia tilted her head to the side. A smile tickled her lips. He looked like a forlorn child, almost innocent in this state.

As if to match her look, his head moved to the side as well. "W-what?" he asked, confused as to what earned him such an enduring expression from his twin.

"Nothing, Sirocco. You just — you just look like hell." She laughed softly, as if to dismiss her concern, and then pulled one of the blankets around her brother.

"Hmmm," was all he managed in response. He shook his head before shifting on the bed so that he could lean back against the wall. Sleep called him.

Sancia narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. She looked rather childish when she glared in such a fashion, but perhaps it was because her brother still evoked specific memories from their childhood when she looked at him like that. "Hmmm, what, Sirocco?"

He smiled. "I had no answer, San, thus, hmmm." A cough erupted from his chest as he finished, mingling with his light chuckle. He pulled the blanket around him a little better, grateful for the warmth.

"How articulate," Sancia said flatly. The woman stood up from the bed, picking up Jacqueline's cloak to hang it on one of the hooks by the fireplace. "I'm just worried about you, Roc. I hope you know that." Her tone softened at the last line.

The inventor sighed and closed his eyes. His sister was so beautiful, so strong, yet sometimes took little things to heart when his reactions had nothing to do with her. They were conditions of life, habits built into walls of protection. Since his parents died, he had settled on a truth: No one cared what happened to him except for Sancia.

Siroc hadn't thought about how his actions affected others in quite some time — excluding the da Vinci incident. He had learned to stand on his own, completely alone. He lived his life that way. He never fully revealed himself to his friends, and so even with them, he felt isolated. "It's been a long time since anyone's worried about me, San." He slid down the wall until he rested cock-eyed on the uncomfortable feather mattress. He slowly moved his tired legs up onto the bed and underneath the blanket.

Sancia untied the laces from the front of her bodice as she thought, keeping her back to her brother. "Your friends worry about you, Sirocco." She pulled off the top piece of her soaked garments and hung it on another hook.

"It's different," he mumbled dismissively, not really wanting to have this conversation with his twin. If it were possible to roll away, he would have done so at that point to affectively end this strange conversation. Instead, he closed his eyes and wiggled to get comfortable on the lumpy mattress. He desperately wanted to sleep.

"How is that?" Her soft voice floated back to him.

"It just is, Sancia," he muttered.

Sancia glanced back at the sound of her brother's muttering. Seeing his eyes closed, she took the opportunity to pull off the rest of her garments, leaving only her damp chemise behind. She remained silent, pondering his less-than-intellectual rebuttal. She, like her brother, had many walls around her heart, but his friends had taught her a lesson in the brief time she'd known them: The importance of trust and friendship. Did her brother understand? "Will you ever let anyone love you other than me?" she asked, adding her skirts to the mess of clothing they needed to dry.

Siroc growled and cracked his eyes slightly. Using his good arm, he forced himself back into a sitting position. He rolled his eyes, unsure how exactly they got on this topic. He really was too tired to think. "Men don't 'love' each other, Sancia. It's just …" His face distorted into a strange expression.

She rolled her eyes. "Like a brother, like a sister, like a father, like a mother — there are many degrees of love, Sirocco, and it all begins with trust. I trusted your friends, because you told me I should." She shook her. "Your friends — Jacqueline — love you. Look at everything Jacqueline risks just to make sure you — we — survive."

"Sancia, I may not exactly be at my best, but I seriously doubt Jacqueline is in love with me."

The woman scoffed. Was he even paying attention to her? She pulled the nightshirt over her head, and then pulled the damp chemise from beneath. Already, she felt much better now that she was out of the soaked attire. "Not romantically, Sirocco," she told him, coming to sit next to him on the bed. "But as a brother and friend. The way I care for you." She grabbed one of the blankets Jacqueline had set down and wrapped it around her shoulders. She scooted back, leaning against the wall beside him.

Siroc turned and gently pressed his lips to her temple. "San," he whispered. He still didn't really understand her point in this conversation. "Why are we talking about this?"

She sighed and rested her head against his good shoulder. Her left hand slid into his right. "I don't really know, Sirocco. I guess — I hope you know how lucky you are to have them. They would do anything for you, as I would." Her lower lip began to twitch; tears formed at the edges of her eyes. "And then I showed up and ruined everything for you."

Siroc leaned in, resting his chin on his sister's head. "No, you didn't, San. Don't say that." He kissed her damp hair. "There isn't a day that has gone by that I haven't thought of you, missed you. And when I couldn't take thinking about you, I'd lose myself in father's notebook or whatever invention happened to cross my mind. If I focused on what I was doing, I didn't feel quite so…" he let the sentence trail off. "But with you here, San, I feel…" He couldn't finish that one either.

"Whole?" she completed it for him. Sancia's golden eyes stared at their joined hands. Tears fell silently from them. She knew the feeling, but the slave discovered something else a long time ago: Everyone stands alone. She had to find courage, love, friendship and wisdom within her own soul in order to be whole. Siroc, however, brought out the best in her; it was why she felt whole when they were together.

"Yes," he admitted; her hair muffled his admission.

She lifted her head, forcing them apart so that she could look at her twin. Her hand relinquished his to caress his cheek. "Sirocco, you've stood alone for a long time, as have I," she said in a comforting tone. Her voice slightly choked from her emotion. "I told you, I let go of your hand, but I want you to know why." She let the words sink in before she continued. "Vesey was going to sell you at an auction. I lied to you when I told you he was going to sell me because I knew you would take the risk and escape if I was in danger. Our entire lives, we did everything together; there wasn't a decision that was made without the other's consent. You were always my hero, my strength. So, for the first time, I made a choice without you. I was so scared, when I let you go, that I would never see you again, and I knew it meant facing the world alone. But, seeing now what you built for yourself with the musketeers, seeing the man you've become, I _know_ I made the right decision. I do not regret the last five years, Sirocco."

"San —" he interjected. He wasn't quite sure what to say, but along the road he traveled, he knew he had reached that point as well. He had learned to stand without her, to make choices without her consent, and to think as an individual. It was why, despite her pleas for him not to follow, he chose to save her the night before over the musketeers, and it had nearly cost him his life. "I would repeat the last two days over again, with the same results, to free you from Vesey. I know you wish I hadn't, but it seems perhaps I've learned to make choices without you as well." He wrapped his arm around her. "We have both grown, changed, but no matter what, you will always be _my_ sister."

Sancia closed her eyes and buried her head into his shoulder and upper chest. She let the tears flow unhindered; she was grateful beyond measure to have him back in her life. "I love you, Sirocco," she whispered. She felt safe, warm and loved sitting there with her brother. Silence fell around them.

A short time later, Jacqueline entered her home. Her arms were laden with firewood and a small cloth sack. She set the bag on the table before heading to the hearth to start the much-needed fire. "I got some clothes and food from the neighbor. We should rest for a while and then rendezvous with d'Artagnan and Ramon as planned," Jacqueline spoke. Silence only followed. "Siroc, Sancia," she called, turning around to face her friends for the first time since wandering back in. A smile lit her face at the sight. Both sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, sound asleep. Jacqueline had fallen asleep like that with her brother many times when they were children in this very place. It warmed her heart to see them so content, but saddened her as well.

Jacqueline finished building the fire, and then changed out of her cold, damp attire. After hanging the cloth by the crackling flames, she picked up the last blanket and wrapped it around her body. She sunk down in front of the hearth, staring at the dancing yellow light. Her knees drew up to her chest; she rested her chin atop them. A sad smile crossed her lips. _'I miss Gerard.'_


	24. Chapter 24

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Four: Washing Away Thy Sins**

Back and forth the trees swayed, dancing beneath the black sky. The newly formed blossoms spewed into the air, only to be hammered down to the sodden grass by the heavy rain. Lightning flashed, striking a tree at the edge of the gardens. Sparks shot up into the air, and the tree toppled, hanging up on the high, stone wall that bordered the property. The age-old oak had lost its life in an instant.

From the window in his office, Mazarin watched the storm's awesome power unfold before him. His hands were pressed together as if in prayer. A sinister looking smile hung at his lips while his mind philosophized over the precariousness of life. Storms, in their symbolism, always represented a great change, because when they finished, all sins were washed away. They were powerful, strong and indiscriminate in what they struck down — in much the same way he was. By the time the thunderous apparitions faded from the sky, Mazarin would exert his force upon the land and clean up a mess twelve years in the making.

He had not foreseen the blundering of Maurice Vesey to so ineffectually serve the order in which they both belonged. Twelve years ago, on Mazarin's command, Sirocco and Sancia Marcellus had been kept alive instead of executed with their parents. The Cardinal had relinquished them to Vesey's custody as slaves. He had saved Siroc specifically because the diplomat believed he could convince the boy to join him, whereas Vesey could not convince his father.

Mazarin hoped to manipulate the male twin to his will. He would have acted as his savior, purchasing the boy at an appropriate time, giving him the means to create inventions like his father had, and eventually setting him free once he was a full member of the Knights of the Black Tabernacle. Instead, Sirocco Marcellus had escaped and joined the musketeers, going simply by the name Siroc. The Cardinal had spent countless hours trying to persuade the genius to join his guards, to no avail, since realizing the boy was another da Vinci. Much Like Donatien Marcellus though, the inventor had become a nuisance, and therefore, like his father, he needed to be put in check.

Sancia, in turn, had been saved in order to serve Vesey. She spied on nobles of interest, securing information in order to keep them under the Knights' control. She had played a key role in the downfall of many landowners and nobles in the southern and eastern regions of France over the past five years. She had been an asset. All this time though, Mazarin and Vesey had underestimated the girl. She had a mind much like her father's, and that wasn't something they had anticipated. Vesey, especially, had underestimated her, and he had revealed far too much of the Knights' greater plan. The rose had become a thorn, like her brother, and both would be dealt with in due course.

"Bernard." Mazarin spoke after his subordinate had finished reporting. His voice was sickly sweet. "How is it that a slave girl, a woman and a wounded musketeer managed to escape from France's premier fortress?" He turned around, keeping his hands pressed together in devotion. "An impregnable fortress that evaded countless sieges during the Hundred Years' War?"

The captain of the Cardinal's ranks stiffened where he stood. The scars on his back — wounds inflicted the last time he failed the leader of the Knights of the Black Tabernacle — began to tingle. "They had some kind of explosive, your Eminence. It took out the bridge from the prison to the inner courtyard and half of my men on duty." He tried not to stammer out the explanation. "Perhaps the same substance the inventor destroyed his laboratory with last month?" the captain concluded.

The Cardinal began to stroll slowly about his office. He dropped his hands to instead wrap them behind his back. His chest puffed out a bit as his shoulders were drawn back. "Undoubtedly." He stopped his movement in front of the straight-backed solider. "But how did they get past your guards, Bernard? Were they asleep on duty or are they just as incompetent as you are?"

Bernard's throat cleared as he tried to speak. He swallowed hard when he realized the crude sound emitted instead of what he was trying to say. "We — we believe they came in with the servants admitted for the nobility staying at the prison." His throat choked again, but he quickly regained his composure to defend his military might. "My men are searching for them even as we speak, your Grace. They fled into the Seine and given the storm, they disappeared quickly into the rough current. More than likely, they drowned."

The Cardinal exhaled, trying to maintain his composure. He was beyond livid with his subordinate for what felt like the hundredth failure. "Bernard, if I had you thrown into the Bastille with those you've imprisoned, do you think you would survive long enough to escape? Or would you let the musketeer show you up?"

"Your Eminence, I assure you…" The captain aimed to defend his station. His teeth clenched as he spoke, unnerved as to whether his superior was serious.

"Assurances mean nothing, Bernard," Mazarin barked back. "I want results. Instead, you let two women walk into the Bastille and make off with that musketeer." He growled in anger. He was so close to gaining control of the boy that had escaped him, only for his guards to let him slip away.

His red robes swished as he turned away from the idiot before him. He rounded his desk and dropped into his chair. Putting energy into disciplining his officer was a waste of time. The man would never be like his first captain; unfortunately he managed to get himself killed by a peasant, leaving the Catholic holy man with seconds. He grew tired of the dishes Bernard served him. They were littered with incompetence, stupidity and carelessness, and they left a bitter taste in his mouth. His thumb and forefinger kneaded the bridge of his nose. As usual, he was going to have to take charge of the situation.

"Bernard," he spoke slowly, knowing it was the only way his bungling subordinate would understand. "In the morning, the slave auction will begin, and by that time, you better have that musketeer, his sister and whoever else is helping them chained in the depths of the Bastille or better yet — dead."

The captain lifted his chin as a sinister smile crossed his features. "It would be my pleasure to get rid of those…" The cursing to describe the king's guardsmen never fell from the Cardinal's lackey when their conversation was interrupted by a rather impatient knock. Bernard turned to open the door, but quickly jumped back as Maurice Vesey barged into the Cardinal's chambers.

"How could you let them escape?" he demand upon admitting himself; his voice rang loud enough to fill the palace corridors. He waved an arm, forcing the soldier aside roughly as he made his way before the Cardinal. His lips were twisted into an angry sneer, which most considered to be his usual expression. He planted his palms upon Mazarin's desk. His pale skin looked deathly next to the dark wood. His beady eyes were locked with the holy man's. "Do you know what is at stake, Mazarin? That girl could ruin us! And now those musketeers are snooping around the Vosges!"

The Cardinal didn't even react to the ill-tempered man leaning down before him. His eyes quickly diverted to the soldier, signaling him to secure the door — lest they were overheard. "Ruin you, I think you mean, Vesey," he said coldly. "I assure you, my men are looking for your slaves even now, and am already aware of d'Artagnan and that Spaniard nosing around. It will be dealt with."

Vesey smacked his hands on the surface of the desk. "Damn you," he barked. "This is your fault. I never wanted the whelp and the girl! They should have died with their meddlesome father and their whore of a mother!" His snow-white face had turned almost crimson in the face of the Cardinal. "If I go down, so do you, Mazarin!" he threatened; his tone was dark and menacing.

The prime minister's calm façade broke. He abruptly stood, forcing the businessman to stand erect and take a step back, right into the waiting Bernard. The soldier grabbed Vesey. "That is where you're wrong," Mazarin practically snarled. "It was your own stupidity and incompetence that allowed Donatien Marcellus to discover your actions twelve years ago. You were careless then, careless when you let that boy escape before he was delivered to me, and you are careless now to allow that girl to know of our plans for those children."

Vesey struggled in the soldier's grip, shifting his weight and jerking his arms in attempt to escape. "Unhand me!" the businessman ordered. His thin lips pressed together, twitching on one side. His chin dropped, and his dark, beady eyes narrowed into a glare. "Mazarin," he barked, following his order.

The Cardinal only smiled, enjoying Vesey's discomfort. He locked eyes with Bernard once more, giving a slight nod. Moments later, his captain pulled a dagger and pressed the blade to the businessman's throat. The holy man's lips twitched up until his teeth shown, reveling when his longtime friend croaked with shock. Friendship meant nothing when it came to Mazarin's master plan. "Now that I have your attention," he said in a sickly sweet tone. "I think it's time to resolve this matter." He inhaled quickly and then sat back down in his chair.

"What did you have in mind, your Grace?" Vesey asked through clenched teeth.

Mazarin rested his elbows upon his desktop and drummed his fingers together as he thought. For years, he wanted to put an end to several meddlesome privates, and even the musketeers as a whole. The tricky problem was that his men couldn't just outright kill the source of his problems without raising suspicions. However, current circumstances had moved a key piece to his advantage. "Bernard, it seems the musketeers know about our friend's business ventures. Perhaps you should see to them, and make sure you're followed."

"Your Grace?" he questioned.

The religious leader glared at the soldier, annoyed that he dared interrupt. It astonished him that Bernard could be so dense at times. "They have been ordered by his majesty not to interfere further in Vesey's affairs," the Cardinal spelled out. "Let them follow you, then take care of them — permanently. No one will question our actions against treasonous musketeers." He let the words linger before he continued. "And take Vesey with you," he added without much enthusiasm. It would be nice to kill two birds with one stone: the musketeers and now, Vesey. The careless businessman was now too much of a liability. It was time to dispose of him as well. Mazarin was through saving him from his blunders.

"With pleasure," the soldier said. He smiled for the first time that day.

"But — Mazarin!" Vesey barked, only for the captain to press the blade firmly against his throat once more to silence him.

"I don't believe you have a say in the matter," Bernard said. He laughed in Vesey's ear, causing the man to struggle once more against his grasp.

"Take him through the catacombs," Mazarin ordered. "And make sure there are no more surprises."

"Yes, your Eminence." Bernard dragged Vesey toward the wall entrance that lead down to the catacombs and the Knights' meeting area, enjoying every moment of the businessman's protests. He opened the entrance and released Vesey, but not before giving him a push. He laughed when the man stumbled on the stairs. The businessman spat profanity from his mouth like the sky spewed rain.

"Oh, Bernard," the Cardinal addressed one last time. The Captain peered around the entryway he had started to close to face his commander.  "After the musketeers are disposed of, see to it Vesey doesn't live to cause us any more trouble." He received a compliant nod before the hidden entryway sealed.


	25. Chapter 25

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Five: Falling Into Place**

Just beyond the north gates of Paris, hidden beyond the tree line, two cloak figures steadied a pair of horses. Every crack of thunder, the duo pulled hard on the leather straps in their hands, forcing the steeds to hold their ground in the unholy downpour. The animals pranced, trying to escape the sodden earth caked up to their knees. It was a miserable evening, for man and beast alike, cold and forbidden under the onslaught of the heavens.

"They're late," d'Artagnan said bitterly. Their afternoon of scouting had thus far been in vain, and to top it off, he was sitting in some of the most miserable weather he'd ever seen, waiting on his two friends and another feisty female. He pulled the leather cloak tighter about him.

"Si, do you think they are all right, mi amigo?" The Spaniard beside him echoed what the Gascon was truly thinking. Water poured from the brim of the hat dispersing the thick droplets from directly hitting his face.

"Siroc was injured …" he didn't finish the thought. For all the times that he accused the inventor of being far too serious, d'Artagnan could be just as such when the stakes were high. The future of one of his closest friends hinged upon their mission of finding the children. His arrogance suggested that the task should have been resolved long before the rendezvous with Siroc and Jacqueline, but to his frustration, the devil's advocate had yet to appear.

"Perhaps they are delayed, no?"

D'Artagnan didn't respond to the question. Instead, his brown eyes focused on the series of horses and a carts moving through the north gate. In the waning light and the onslaught of nature, he had a hard time making out individuals in the entourage behind the lead figure, but he did recognize the man at the head. Bernard had finally made his presence. "Looks like our luck is about to change," he said.

The Spaniard followed his gaze to the series of men. His features lit at the sight. "Capitanee Bernard." The name rolled off his tongue like silk across skin. The soldier glanced to his friend. "Do we follow or wait for the others?"

D'Artagnan thought for a moment. So far, they had marginal success in their daily exploits, but the Gascon wanted something positive to tell his 'rival' when they rendezvoused. They were already late … "Let's follow Bernard. It might be our only chance to find out where the children are. We'll find Jacques and Siroc later." His brown eyes remained locked on the target striding up the road on horseback.

The men waited in silence until the stream of guardsmen and horses passed their hiding point, and then they followed the group on the northern road. The storm masked the sound of their pursuit.

———

Sancia's eyes popped open; her heart thumped at an unnatural rate. What was it that brought her out of her slumber? The rumble of the storm still passing? The crack of the fire nearing the end of its life? Or, the slightly heavy breathing of her twin brother beside her? No, none of those things sparked recognition from the fatigued woman. She was used to the grumblings of foul weather and the crack of the fire. Even after all the time they spent apart, she was even used to the sound of her brother's breathing when he slept on his back. It was always sharper because her head rested upon his chest.

She sighed and nestled back into the comfort of his embrace. Her golden eyes gazed up at her brother's sallow face. A hand slid up; her fingertips traced the lines of his rough jaw, the softer curve of his cheekbones and the gentle swoop of his hairline. A few short days changed much in the world. For it was but a few short days ago that she smiled in happiness that her brother had found a life with the musketeers, and now he looked sickly yellow and pale, bruised, battered and not strong and noble like their dear father. It saddened her to see him so low, because such a state was contradictory to his soul. Sancia's hand shrunk back at her brother's sharp intake of breath.

His blond lashes fluttered as his eyelids opened. Eyes hued just like hers peered down past crusted edges. The corners of his mouth curved into a wisp of a smile. "Shouldn't you be asleep, San?" he queried; his voice still thick from slumber.

"Something woke me," her gentle cadence countered. She sighed contently, and began to stroke the features of his face. Sancia was much like their mother in her affectionate ways, when she'd let down the walls.

Siroc's tongue smacked the roof of his mouth several times. He stretched and moved a bit, finding aches, pain and stiffness where once none existed. He swallowed hard in one last vain attempt to cast away the thick feeling in his mouth. He rolled his head to scan the room and then let it roll back to a comfortable resting point. "Jacqueline is gone," he announced.

"What?" Sancia propped up on her arms, looking around the room. A fire still burned; their clothes hung near the mantle, now dry; and a modest portion of food sat upon the tabletop. But, there was no Jacqueline. _'Perhaps that is what woke me?'_ "She wouldn't just leave, would she? Without even a word?" Her anxiety piqued.

"She probably stepped outside for a moment, San. No need to fuss." Siroc shifted his weight to find a more comfortable position. He rolled partly to his side and then relaxed back into the tiny bed.

Sancia settled back in beside him with the knowledge he was probably right. Her head rested upon his arm in such a fashion that his arm curved up just enough for his fingertips to toy with the loose strands of her blonde hair. "What an odd pair we make, Sirocco," she stated, letting memories of childhood, and moments such as this, fill her mind.

"Some things never change, San," he whispered softly in her ear. Silence fell between them, but only long enough for Siroc to gather his thoughts. He, too, remembered their younger days, happy days with their parents. Sancia always got him in trouble, but she burned with such life, such … "Fire. You were always fire, Sancia Mateja. Every time I heard you laugh, it was like watching the sun. You burned with so much life, passion …" He missed that brilliant, vibrant girl, but loved this passionate realist just as much.

"And what of you, Sirocco Donatien?" she countered slyly. A tiny laugh crossed her chapped lips. "You were always the water, putting my fire out. Always calm, serene, tranquil, like a still pond, until I'd do something questionable." A fuller laugh escaped. "Then you roared like a flash flood." She kissed his cheek and sighed. "You always did know just where to direct your focus to cut your path like the mighty Seine."

"I could use some of that focus now," Siroc countered. His mind drifted back to more important matters, like how they were going to get past this mess.

"Don't worry, Siroc," she comforted. "I have the feeling that you and your friends have a way of making things turn out for the better."

The musketeer eyed the blond girl next to him. "Since when are you so optimistic, San?"

She chortled in his ear. "It's not optimism; it's realism …"

A thin, light brow arched on her brother. "Hmmm," he countered thoughtfully. "The probability that you just lied to me, San, is quite good."

Sancia scoffed and sat up, feigning anger. "Think what you want, Sirocco," she curtly returned, and then turned away to hide the smile creeping at the edges of her mouth. "You don't know everything …" She kicked her legs over the edge of the bed. After drawing up one of the blankets around her, she crossed the room to gather her clothing. The twin missed the knowing smirk on her brother's haggard face.

Using the blanket as a shield, the young woman began to dress near the warmth of the fire. Her formerly soaked skirt was now stiff, yet warm from its stay by the flame. She pulled the fabric up over the night dress. She dropped the blanket, but kept her back to her brother and the door, when she went to pull on her bodice and synch the front. After dressing, she turned back around and nearly jumped out of her skin. A screech escaped.

In the doorway, Jacqueline jumped at the sound, dropping a few pieces of firewood from her hands. The timber bounced at her boot-clad feet. "Calm down, Sancia, it's just me!" Jacqueline said quickly. No longer was she dressed as a person of the female gender. Instead, she donned a pair of trousers and a white shirt tucked into the top of her britches. Black boots extended halfway up her calves. Her long, curly locks were pulled back at the base of her neck, and the fake facial hair she periodically wore adorned her chin.

Jacqueline shut the door behind her and then squatted to pick up the fallen logs. She piled them back in her arms before crossing to place them in the wood box to the left of the hearth. "I'm glad you're awake," she said as she worked. "We were supposed to meet d'Artagnan and Ramon at nightfall, and it's long past that." The musketeer dusted off her hands. "There's food, firewood, and if you need anything else, the neighbor will help you. He's a friend of my father's; I trust him with my life."

Siroc struggled to sit up on the bed. He cringed and took deep breaths to counter the pain. "We're going with you, Jacqueline."

The female musketeer crossed her arms. "Siroc, you're not exactly in any shape to travel right now …"

"I don't care," he broke in. "Sancia and I are coming with you. We're not going to just sit here and wait for the outcome."

Sancia warred within briefly, debating whether to agree with her brother's adamant declaration or hide away with him in safety. She never could sit idly by, even if she believed Siroc should stay here and heal. "Agreed. I'm not going to just wait here and hope everything turns out for the best." She stopped, taking a breath, and then quickly added when she saw the female musketeer begin to argue. "Our father believed in taking action to determine one's fate. And if he truly was a musketeer, then it is all the more important that Sirocco and I see this through to the end."

Jacqueline took a moment. Her tongue grazed her lips as she thought. Siroc was the diplomat of their foursome, because he always thought things through and could see the variables where the others only foresaw what was in front of them. She doubted he was seeing the big picture at the moment, but she knew what drove him. The musketeer only knew bits and pieces from what the captain told them, what they overheard and what Sancia had shared. She didn't know all of their past, but enough to know the importance of determining the future. "I really think this is a bad idea but if you both insist …

"We do." The words came from both her companions.

"Then I guess the three of us can at least head back to Paris together." She sighed in frustration and then added pointedly, "But, Siroc, if d'Artagnan and Ramon have found the children like we hope, then you _are_ staying behind when we go after them. You really are in no shape …"

"I agree with Jacqueline on that point, Siroc," the other woman added. As much as she wanted to be there to watch Vesey's world shatter, she also wanted her brother safe. He really didn't look well.

"I'll concede later, San," he said pointedly. He kicked his legs over the edge of the bed. "Let's just get moving."

———

As the evening progressed, the night cleared enough to allow the silvery-blue light of the moon to cast its shadow on the saturated earth below. The two musketeers crept along in the darkness, approaching the orange lights of several torches in the distance. Thick black smoke billowed up to the sky, and at the heart of the circle of flame stood two familiar figures: Capitan Bernard and Maurice Vesey.

The guardsmen held the businessman by the lapels. His teeth were clenched as he bit at the other man. The words were lost to the wind and noise of horses and other members of the Cardinal's guard. Bernard then flung the dark-haired man to the ground and barked several orders at his subordinates. "Get those horses secured! We leave at daybreak with the brats!" The lean figured then stalked toward the ruined monastery.

"Brats?" the Spaniard murmured. He gripped the bark of tree he hid behind, feeling a sense of déjà vu wash over him. Forgotten monastery, kidnapped children, apparently some plots not even Mazarin gave up.

"I think we just found them …" d'Artagnan offered. "And we have until morning to get them out." He glanced over his shoulder to the man at his left. "Easy way or hard way?"

The Spaniard thought about it for the moment: With only the two of them, the odds were in the guards' favor. However, if they returned to meet up with their friends, the odds would be a bit more even. After all, one to three, they could handle; one to seven, not so much. "Easy way, mi amigo. Let's at least meet up with Jacques and Siroc and think of an approach. There are guards all along the perimeter of the ruins."

D'Artagnan nodded then gestured his head back to where they had left their horses. Hard-headed and arrogant, he often rushed in to situations. However, given the circumstances, reinforcements were a better battle strategy then blind attack.

———

Bernard bent down and dragged Vesey to his feet. The businessman's back was covered with mud and he hissed like a snake at the Cardinal's captain. The red-clad demon tossed the man at a pair of soldiers approaching him. They caught the slave dealer by the arms and held him tight. "Take him inside and shackle him." Bernard laughed at the irony of the slave owner in irons.

"Sir," the lieutenant at the right said. "The musketeers are leaving. Should we follow them?"

The day was just getting better for this leader. He smirked, pleased that he might actually succeed in his mandate. "No, let them go."

"But, Sir, what if they come back with reinforcements?" the sergeant argued. He immediately regretted the question when his superior shot him an icy glare.

"I'm sure they will return with reinforcements," he said coldly. "Lieutenant, when you're done with that piece of filth, go fetch Lieutenant Bosse and his men, and instruct them to hide themselves inside the monastery for when those pests return."

"Yes, Sir," the seasoned soldier responded without thought and then dragged the man yelling obscenities away from his revered leader.

The captain chuckled at the sound of Vesey's protests. Yes, everything was falling into place.


	26. Chapter 26

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Six: Found**

Just north of the gate, a trio of peasants waited beneath the blossoming canopy of oaks. Droplets rained down off the umbrella-sized leaves, periodically striking the waiting travelers. The chatter of teeth echoed out of the darkness; the dampness of the spring evening left it feeling more like the depths of winter instead of the season of rebirth. But at least the stars showed through the dispersing clouds. The heavy onslaught had ceased, and by morning, the sun would warm the earth again.

Such knowledge held little joy for those dreading the morn and what awaited innocent lives. Jacqueline's nails scratched into the bark of the tree. Why did those in power think they could treat people in such a despicable fashion? Why did they believe they could destroy lives and still meet for tea in the afternoon without a second thought on their morning's endeavors? Such tyranny was why Jacqueline joined the musketeers under the guise of Jacques Leponte. She wanted vengeance for her father, yet her faith had stayed her hand against further acts of blind justice. Instead, she protected the crown by working within the bounds of the law against men like Cardinal Mazarin and Maurice Vesey.

Her eyes shifted to the two figures huddled together; one supported the other. Brother and sister, so close to each other. Their murmured voices were inaudible as they conversed. She envied them for these quiet moments; the very moments she missed with her own brother, Gerard. She could imagine what they endured together and apart, because she understood the pain of separation, the heartache of loss. It made it all the more important for her to see them freed, safe, happy, together. Tonight, their future rested in the hands of friends. She didn't know for certain, but Jacqueline had a feeling that d'Artagnan and Ramon had succeeded.

"Jacqueline, perhaps we should find shelter and then try to find the others," Sancia's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"I'm Jacques, Sancia," the musketeer corrected. Her green eyes scanned the dark expanse of forest and then shifted to the northern road. "Calling me Jacqueline while dressed like this will get me killed."

"I'm sorry." The apology was sincere. "It's just getting colder and Sirocco is shivering horribly. We need to get him warm."

"I understand that," she returned in a gentle tone. Jacqueline pulled her weight away from the tree, and turned her attention to her companions. In no way was the woman heartless. In fact, she had been accused of having a bleeding heart for those in need. Time pressed upon them, with each passing moment. The sooner they rendezvoused, the sooner they could secure the answers, the proof they needed to assure Siroc and Sancia's freedom. Waiting patiently was no longer an option. Siroc was still wounded, it was cold and they needed to find shelter again. "We'll need to sneak back into the city."

"We cannot go through the gate," Siroc spoke up. His voice sounded weak again. It worried his friend.

"I know a way," Jacqueline stated. She hadn't exactly walked through the city gates after killing the captain of the Cardinal's guard. She had found alternative means to access the capital. The smell wasn't pleasant, but at least it would take them beyond the walls without dealing with any guards.

"Through the wall grate closest to the river?" Siroc asked.

Jacqueline's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you …"

The inventor smiled. "I like to know my options." He chuckled softly. The laughter was quickly echoed by his sister's gentle tones.

Not a day went by that Siroc didn't find a way to surprise Jacqueline. There were so many secrets, so many angles and many mysteries locked away behind the eyes of her quiet friend. She hoped she had a lifetime to puzzle them out. "We'll head for the garrison once through the wall. I think at this point, it'll be the safest place."

"Are you sure about that?" Sancia piped up quickly. The safety of her brother was her top concern.

"It'll be the last place anyone would look for us," the female musketeer pointed out.

"You shouldn't underestimate Captain Duval, Jacques. He didn't make captain because he was a slouch," Siroc defended. "Besides, he always seems to figure when we're up to something."

Jacqueline sighed. "I have faith in the captain, Siroc, which is also why I think the garrison is the safest place." She drew her cloak closer around her shoulders, fighting off the chill from a gust of wind. "He knew your father. I am absolutely certain of it, and if you had seen his reaction when I said the name Marcellus … even if Duval does find us there, I think he would conceal our presence until he couldn't any longer."

"I don't doubt that, Jacques," Siroc said a bit heatedly. There was much his friends didn't know about his relationship with the captain. Siroc was beyond grateful to the man for everything he had done for him. Duval had saved a tired, broken boy, and gave him a home when others had spit on him. The aged soldier had seen potential in the half-starved scarecrow who did odd jobs around the garrison. His loyalty to the captain rivaled his loyalty to his friends. "But to return to the garrison would also endanger the corps if we were caught; we cannot give Mazarin any more reasons to sway his majesty against us."

"Then we won't get caught," Sancia interjected. "Sirocco, how many times did we sneak out when Vesey had locked us in the storehouse only to be back again before he'd send Sinjon to let us out?"

Siroc shrugged with his good shoulder; the case had been made. "The loft above my laboratory. No one ever goes up there," he relented to their logic.

"Siroc," Jacqueline said. "When we leave to find d'Artagnan and Ramon, I really think you should stay at the garrison. You — you don't look well." His golden eyes lifted to look upon her. She couldn't read his face, but his hallow features were unnerving. She braced for an argument that never came.

"I won't argue with it," he said after a few moments of silence.

The blond musketeer was stubborn and focused at times, to the point of self-deprecation. Countless hours he spent in the laboratory, dreaming up the impossible. Often he would forget to sleep and often he would keep going out of duty, and sheer stubbornness. He had strength of will, which was good. He would need it before the break of dawn.

———

In under half an hour, Siroc, Sancia and Jacqueline managed to sneak through the city walls and make it to the musketeer garrison. Soldiers patrolled the streets in pairs; both regiments were on alert after recent events. It made cutting a clear path to the garrison a little difficult. Still, it had only taken a short while. For that, they were all grateful.

Only minutes after they had returned to the garrison, d'Artagnan and Ramon came trudging into the laboratory, drenched and muddy. The Gascon nearly jumped out of his skin when he walked into Siroc's domain to see Jacques Leponte standing at the base of the ladder to the loft.

"Shh," the woman shushed him crossly after he had made an ungodly sound, only to follow the 'shush' with a squawk when d'Artagnan crossed the room and hugged her, putting mud all over her clean white shirt. "What — What are you doing?" She swatted at his back until he dropped her on her feet. The glare she gave her rival was frightening. She huffed in indignation.

"Sorry." He grinned like a deranged man, positively giddy to see her again. The Frenchman had fought worry, doubt and fear all day, especially when the trouble at the Bastille had more than tripled patrols by both corps. "I thought you were going to meet us outside the north gate at sundown."

"Plan changed," Jacqueline countered. She jerked her head up to the loft. Sancia was already descending the ladder. "Siroc's really banged up."

"He'll be fine." Sancia hopped down the last two rungs and landed as gracefully as a cat. "I looked at his shoulder again, where you sealed it, and it doesn't look infected. He needs rest." She sighed. "We all do."

D'Artagnan inhaled deeply. "Well that will have to wait, at least for us." Their mission wasn't yet complete, and the last task undertaken under the veil of night would make or break the young slaves.

"You found them?" Jacqueline asked quickly. She grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulders, eagerly awaiting his response as if it was an answer to a life-long prayer.

The Frenchman nodded his head in affirmation. It was his turn to squawk in surprise when Jacqueline pulled him fully into a hug. She was practically jumping up and down with joy.

"You really found them?" Sancia asked quickly, equally exuberant as the trouser-clad female accosting d'Artagnan.

"Si, Senorita Marcellus," Ramon piped up. His tall form still hung behind his friends. "Like ghosts in the night we snuck up on those blood-red fiends and observed their activities without being seen. Vesey —" he started to laugh. "It seems your master has angered the Cardinal. Bernard was roughing up the blackguard."

"He was?" she asked in disbelief. Vesey, as her master, always held power. He had been an imposing figure and force upon her life since her parents' deaths. It was hard to picture him under another's boot; although, she had wished to see him in such a position for as long as she could recall. Her master had a way of chaffing others. "Hmph, I don't know why that surprises me. That snake has a way of slithering under everyone's skin and poisoning even the truest of hearts." The blonde woman's tone was dark, cold and filled with hatred.

"We need to hurry if we're going to free them," d'Artagnan added, once freed from Jacqueline's embrace. "They plan on moving them at dawn."

"How far?" Jacqueline asked in a hurried tone. Her body was now rigid and her expression was all business.

"Just north of the city, the old monastery." D'Artagnan frowned, when he thought of the logistics of it. "We'll be outnumbered with just the three of us."

"Four," Sancia corrected. She crossed the room to retrieve her brother's baldric off the table and slung the leather over her shoulder.

Before the others could object, Ramon took a step toward the lady. "Senorita, I do not believe that is the wisest of decisions. You should stay here with Siroc."

The petite woman crossed her arms. Her chin dropped, deepening the glare. "I've already argued this point with Jacques. Siroc is staying; I am going." Her left hand then fell to the hilt. Jacqueline and d'Artagnan immediately stepped between them, preparing for another outlandish display. "And I suggest you not argue," she added for good measure.

Ramon threw up his hands, waving them in a calming gesture. The mark on his abdomen from her last outburst with a rapier was still fresh. "Easy, Senorita. I only think of your safety."

"I can protect myself," she cut coldly. "Can I not, Sirocco?" Her voice softened as she addressed her brother high above.

His equally gentle cadence floated down. "She's better with a sword than I am, Ramon."

Ramon sighed; he had no choice but to give in. "I'll take your word for it, mi amigo."

Not more than ten minutes later, Ramon and d'Artagnan were dressed in dry attire and the foursome headed out the back entrance of the garrison. It felt strange to count four, when an important piece of their quartet lay resting inside. Sancia, although a lot like her brother, was no Siroc. His presence was missed.

———

If the walls of Siroc' laboratory could speak, they would tell stories that no one would believe. The inventions he created; the plots and schemes he conjured up with his friends; and all the sleepless nights he sat by the fire, staring at his father's sketches. This one room knew the story of the musketeer Siroc, but what of the boy Sirocco?

He never wanted to be Sirocco Marcellus again. It was the name of a weak child, who had been tortured since his parents' death. In his new home, the musketeer Siroc was revered for his mind, challenged mentally as well as physically, and lived as a citizen of France. He had power, strength, love and camaraderie. What did Sirocco have? For five years, Sirocco had no one. But Siroc had everything he'd wished for. He had to find some way to reconcile his past in order to live for the future. He was no longer that scared child, but he was no longer the garrison scientist shrouded in mystery. He wondered what his father would say.

Siroc opened his father's journal and gazed at the sketch of his mother, Raissa Ariane Marcellus. He missed her laugh, the way she'd smile, the very sound of her voice as she would sing. Sancia reminded him of her, but she was not Raissa. His sister had always been an individual, free-thinking, bold and unafraid. He knew those traits would carry her through the night while she was out with his friends. The inventor wanted to go with his comrades, to secure his future by his hand, but he was physically and mentally exhausted. Still, he could not sleep for thought of his parents.

He turned the pages of the tattered volume, rereading his father's poetry, looking at invention ideas and notes and skimming paragraphs of his father's thoughts. Siroc's calloused fingertips caressed the rough pages as if by doing so he could touch his father's mind to find the answers to the many questions in his own mind.

Siroc pondered things Sancia had told him she learned from Vesey — links to their life, Mazarin and Vesey. He remembered his father's planned journey to Paris before his death — to meet with an old friend. He remembered seeing fear in his father's green eyes. The boy never understood why until he had matured. Then there were the clues about Duval's connection to Donatien Marcellus. Had his father served his majesty, Louis XIII? They were all pieces of the puzzle his life amounted to.

The inventor growled in frustration. With only a few moments of thought, he could unravel any other puzzle, but not this one. Staring at the pieces was like staring at a cipher without the code word. The bits of history and memories he had were not enough to understand why he and his sister had been forced to endure so much in their young lives, or why his father had placed so much importance on one book.

Siroc lifted his arm to throw his father's book, but he couldn't muster the nerve to toss the frustrating item. Instead, he sighed and set it back down in front of him. His fingers turned page after page, seeking the answers as he had a thousand times. When he came to the end of the book, he flipped it back to the front in frustration. He had meant to immediately turn to the first page, but he lost his grip on the parchment. Instead, he faced the inside cover. He had read the words upon the page as many times as he had read the book, to the point that he never bothered any more. Something compelled him to read them again today.

_I give the gift of words to you;__  
A path to knowledge, understanding and truth.  
__A way to conquer, to tame the world;  
And change destiny by opening a door._

The musketeer had no idea what his father meant by it. His twin was much better with turns of phrase then he was. He reread them and this time, as he read the last line, he noticed something that had escaped his astute mind. The elder Marcellus had embedded them within a sketch of a door.

'_Strange'_ Siroc thought. Why would his father draw a door on the inside cover of his notebook? He tilted his head to the side while pondering the matter, and then it struck him — what if? No, it was too easy.

Siroc grabbed the cover and began to press his fingers against it, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Upon first pass, his efforts bore no fruit, but just to be certain, he shook the volume up and down, and then tried it again. Starting at the top of the cover, he worked his way down. That's when he felt it — the slight variance of depth. His heart began to race.

Quickly, he dragged his weary body upright and descended the ladder into the laboratory proper. He raced to the smaller worktable and dug through the drawers. Most of his tools had been damaged, but what had been salvaged were there. He found a letter knife and ripped at the tattered binding of the book, pulling the leather cover clean off. As he did it, he felt a moment of regret. This journal, workbook, sketchbook belonged to his father. It represented Siroc's last remaining connection to a man who had meant everything to him. Donatien had been his hero and mentor, like any father to a son. Ripping apart this book felt like he had ripped his father apart. But, the genius had to know the secrets kept from him for years. The inventor vowed to repair the binding later, when the storm raging around his life had settled.

He shook the leather, but nothing came out. He shook it again. A piece of parchment smacked the floor. Siroc stared at the sealed, yellow-tinged paper as if it were a foreigner in a strange land. When the shock of seeing it finally settled, he picked up the square piece and flipped it over. The seal of the Marcellus family closed the fold. Below it a familiar name was written in Donatien's hand: Lt. Martin Duval, Musketeer Garrison, Paris.

The inventor's usually steady hands shook uncontrollably. The lub-dub of his racing heart marked the passage of time, counting off each measure with a pulse in his ears. He was torn between going straight to the captain and reading it first. What harm could it do? Twelve years had passed since his father sealed and penned the name etched on the front. Yet, Donatien had meant it for the officer, not his only son. The realization stung only long enough for the thought to leave his mind.

Donatien Marcellus had trusted Lt. Martin Duval, the same man Siroc claimed as his commander, the same man who saved his life when he had nothing, gave him this workshop, fought for him when he landed in trouble. He loved Duval in the same fashion as he loved his flesh-and-blood father. For those reasons, he wanted to do right by both men and honor the name beneath the seal.

But all of his answers were locked away behind the crest, the final pieces to a mystery Siroc had tried to understand since that fateful night twelve years prior. His parents' lives had been stolen; he and his sister had been subjugated; his potential had been stifled under the same authoritative boot that kicked him around. No more would he wander in darkness, blind to other's ambitions that casually snuffed out life. Siroc had to know; he had to know why his world had been destroyed.

Without any more hesitation, he popped the seal. What he found was the light at the end of the darkness, and that light was overwhelming. He dropped to his knees, fighting the urge to be sick.


	27. Chapter 27

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Spider and the Flies**

The walls of the ruined monastery rose on three sides of the chapel. Holes, created during a great battle centuries before, left the remaining walls resembling Swiss cheese. The absence of the old gates and wooden doors only added to the effect. Torches lined the open area to the rear of the church that had once been used as a garden. The orange flame sent billows of black smoke up into the crisp night sky, melting the hint of frost forming on the tree branches above.

To the right of the chapel, and just outside the crumbling stone, a small cemetery presided. Many of the smaller headstones were broken and overgrown with the years. There was a narrow entrance into the chapel from the graveyard. A duo of guards dressed in leather masks and black stood flanking the stone hole. A handful of counterparts moved along the perimeter, but the majority of the guards d'Artagnan and Ramon had counted earlier had left — including Bernard.

The foursome paused in the musketeers' previous vantage point. The four souls crouched down to avoid being seen, but the position allowed full view of the enemy sanctum. Only three men occupied the courtyard, mostly milling about a campfire built in the middle of the open area.

"So what's the plan," Sancia's feminine voice interrupted the stealthy silence. Her hands itched to use her brother's rapier and to get to the children. She knew them all by name. She even knew in detail what had become of their families. It made her sick inside, twisted her stomach until the bile rose in her throat. Sancia, for all that she had done in her master's service, was as much to blame for their predicament as Maurice Vesey. Unlike the snake of a man, the blonde girl felt remorse for every evil act she had committed in order to survive.

Jacqueline glanced to the men she worked with on a daily basis, pondering that detail. On one hand, she and Sancia had made a pretty good team, but when it came to fighting, unquestionably she'd choose the Gascon who gave her no end of trouble. "We'll split up," she finally said. "Ramon, you and Sancia go around the back, through the entrance near the cemetery. D'Artagnan and I will take the guards in the courtyard."

"Who put you in charge?" the Frenchman countered. He never could resist challenging Jacqueline. The way her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed …

"No one," she retorted, giving him that glare he loved to entice out of her. "But seeing how I broke you out of the Bastille and then Siroc, I think that entitles me to a little swordplay. Besides, the children know Sancia; they trust her, and Ramon will be there to make sure they get out." She smiled, daring him to challenge her. He always dared to do so.

"I think Ramon and I should take the guards, Jacque_line_." He emphasized the syllables of her name, goading her. "And _you_ should go with Sancia."

Jacqueline rolled her eyes and scoffed in indignation. Had this been early morning, she would have drawn her sword and challenged him right then. His arrogance never ceased to astound her. "Why, because I am a woman?" Her words dripped with sarcasm.

"Enough!" Sancia barked, interrupting their exchange. "Are you always like this?" Although she was getting use to hearing the perpetual arguing, the slave girl couldn't help letting the rhetorical question cross her lips.

Ramon responded, regardless of the sarcastic edge to her voice. "Si, Senorita. I think they are just trying to cover their true affections."

Sancia nearly snorted as she snickered. The look of aghast on Jacqueline's face was as priceless as one of da Vinci's paintings she had noticed on the walls at the palace. If only she had that particular talent — to sketch the image while it was still fresh in her mind — she would do so to preserve this one. D'Artagnan didn't seem to object to the lighthearted teasing at their expense nearly as much as Jacqueline. "Let's go, Senor; we'll take the children; the lovebirds can work out their aggressions on the guards in the courtyard."

The Spaniard and Siroc's sister kept their backs hunched as they left their comrades and began their trek along the outer walls. All the while, the quiet hiss of a man and woman bickering lingered behind them.

———

In the shadows, Ramon and Sancia moved quietly. The gentle sounds of the creatures of the night flitted forth from the wood expanse, masking the rustles of bush and branch. The woman's heart raced like a bird in flight. She had anticipated the day she would undo all of Vesey's wrongs, all of her wrongs.

Securing the children wasn't the easier task. She knew the fact touched Jacqueline's mind when she made the suggestion. But Sancia held no grudge. She preferred this path. Freeing them meant freeing herself from a lifetime of pain and regret; it meant defying the serpent, the devil who had poisoned her life. Maurice Vesey had tortured her brother, abused her and made her no more than the lowliest of women. She had stood by and watched him betray, rob, cheat, steal, and murder. He had poisoned France with his venom and she would be the remedy to his toxin.

Long, curly wisps of her hair glided through the air as she spun around to face the Spaniard taking up the rear. She barely came to chest level on him. His imposing height gave her a sense of security, when she felt as if she could barely keep her wits. It felt as if the weight of the world resided upon her narrow frame.

The woman pointed to the duo barring the back entrance to the church interior, and then to herself. She gestured in the direction she would take and then continued to silently explain for him to continue along their original course. Sancia was new at such things, but the seasoned soldier understood the gist of her non-verbal communication.

Sancia nearly crawled to keep behind the larger headstones. She slipped upon the wet earth, muddying her hands. A sense of déjà vu washed over her, sending a shiver coursing her spine. She recalled the cold, the mud, the unyielding downpour, and sliding down the muddy hillside away from her twin brother. The look of sorrow and fear in his eyes haunted her dreams to the day. She had given him up then. As she stared at her muddy hands, she briefly wondered if she would have to do so again. Her fragile heart could not take it a second time.

She dragged her tense body up and continued sneaking through the graveyard until she reached the shelter of the trees. She cut up through the forest until she reached the path that led directly through the bounds of the cemetery to the portal behind the guards. She waited patiently, watching the shadowed movements of her counterpart. The Spaniard moved quickly, yet silently until he was but an arm's length from the deviants who worked toward chaos instead of peace. They were in position; they were ready.

The slave girl stepped out of the shadows. She let her hips sway seductively as she approached the guards. "Gentleman," she said in an equally seductive cadence. It was like honey dripping from a hive, sweet and delicious. Too bad, the men didn't know better than to beware of the sting.

One of the pair stepped forward. "Who are you? What's your business?" he demanded. His hand held tightly to the hilt of his rapier.

"I'm looking for my master, Monsieur Vesey." Her hands started to tremble as she stopped before the man nearly twice her size.

"He's inside," the soldier said, all leeriness for the female had subsided. His hand extended, caressing the side of her cheek and then toying slightly with her hair. Sancia held her winning smile, although she felt sick. She hated to be touched in such a fashion. "But you're more than welcome to stay out here with us."

Seeing Ramon moving in behind the guard still by the passageway, Sancia countered by stepping closer to the strong man before her. The man cupped her cheek and the slave pretended to enjoy the caress. One eye remained on him, while the other golden orb followed Ramon's actions. The Spaniard's rapier rose, pressing against the back of the soldier's neck. In his other hand, he cocked a flintlock, drawing it on her would-be seducer.

The man's hand dropped from her cheek. "What the …" he started as his head spun around to find the source of the noise. Seeing the blade and the flint, he quickly turned back to the beautiful blonde girl. As his head rotated, Sancia caught him blindly with the hilt of her brother's rapier, knocking him unconscious.

She stepped over the body with only a second glance to make sure the prone form wasn't still moving. The smile on her face widened when Ramon dropped the other guard.

"Not bad," Sancia said sweetly.

"Senorita, have you ever considered a career on the stage?" the Spaniard queried. He tucked the flintlock back into his waistband, but kept his blade at the ready. They were about to venture into the den, and only God knew what lions awaited.

Her innocent smile bent crookedly. "I think my mother would smite me from heaven should I ever pursue such a career, Ramon. I was born a lady, after all, even if the will of men made me a slave." She passed the foreigner and paused in the entryway, glancing over her shoulder. "Still, I've always adored the poets and their crafty tongues, with words to steal a lady's heart — but never lead astray. After all, virtue cannot be stolen simply because the mind is astute."

"Si, senorita, I knew there was a softer side to you." Ramon countered as he fell in behind her. They walked at a cautious pace down a narrow staircase. "As I suspected, beauty can be found in a clever mind, and virtue and beauty are not always hand-in-hand. A poet understands beauty resides in all things, including the flawed. It blossoms like a peach tree, when the time is right."

Sancia paused on the step below Ramon's. She glanced up at the Spaniard. "Perhaps that is why I love poets …" she said in a hushed, almost breathless tone. A blush took her cheeks; her dignity remained sheltered only because of the blackness within the staircase. Had she said such words by the light of day, she would have seen the admiring look on the foreigner's face. He too adored the poets, and more so when said poet was a lady who could match his wit.

———

"Is it true, Jacqueline?" d'Artagnan whispered. He followed closely behind his sister-in-arms, watching her backside with a sense of admiration. "Do you harbor _feelings_ for me?"

She had tried to ignore him since parting company with their friends, but the last question nettled a response from the brunette. She spun on her heels, pulling her rapier. "The only thing I'm currently harboring is the desire to vomit," she said tersely. "Get over yourself." She sent a burst of air out through her nose, flaring her nostrils like a peevish mare.

"You're beautiful when you're angry," he teased. He pulled out his weapon and grinned from ear-to-ear. He waggled his eyebrows at her and then passed her, taking the lead through the woods.

Unlike the cemetery entrance, the direct approach required more of a flanking action. The musketeers had to divert to the far side, where the trees met up with the ruin walls, and use the shelter of the stone to enter the former courtyard through one of the holes. With d'Artagnan still leading, they made it through the Swiss cheese and kept to the shadows as they approached the trio near the fire.

Although no other soldiers were visible, Jacqueline had the distinct feeling that they were being watched. The hairs on her neck stood up; her shoulders tensed and in turn, she tightened her grip upon her weapon.

"D'Artagnan," she said softly. He halted his step, peering over his shoulder at his comrade. "Something's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" he asked quickly, yet quietly. He was in no mood to get caught on what should be an easy in and out for Ramon and Sancia. He and Jacqueline were technically the distraction.

"You said there were at least twenty soldiers earlier, including Bernard. Where are they now?" Her head turned quickly, examining the area around them. She couldn't shake the paranoia sounding a warning within.

The Gascon shrugged. "What does it matter where they went? The odds are even now …"

"What if they're not?" Jacqueline quickly refuted.

D'Artagnan pursed his lips in annoyance. If it wasn't for the sword in his hand, he would have also crossed his arms. "Jacques." He used the masculine now that they were in a more 'public' place. "Stop being so paranoid." He shook his head and continued through the shadows along the church walls.

Jacqueline followed under duress. "I am not paranoid." With each step they took, the feeling grew stronger. Her breathing became ragged as her heart rate increased, but she kept it in check. After all, she was a member of his majesty's musketeers, an elite corps charged with the protection of king and country. Perhaps she was being paranoid. She halted behind the Frenchmen.

He peered around a corner, counting their opponents. A fourth had joined the men by the fire. "Let's cut across to that wall. We'll be able to attack better from there." He gestured to a small outcropping near the quartet. They needed as much surprise as they could get. Charging them from their current location would only allow them to alert any guards that remained inside the rubble.

They cut across the expanse, moving quickly to the safety of the outcropping. They paused there for a moment, and only a moment, before d'Artagnan stepped out with the same bold arrogance he pursued every duel and every fight. "Good evening, gentleman. Nice night we're having."

Immediately the foursome was up and drawing their blades against the intruder. They circled him, like lions stalking their prey.

Jacqueline waited until all attention was on d'Artagnan before moving in on the two closest to her. She struck one from behind, disabling him, but not killing him, and managed to get her blade back up when his comrade brought his down upon her. She thrived on the dance, the sound of steel on steel, the eloquence and beauty found in the human form as it moved in battle. At least she did when the outcome to the duel didn't end in death. When in battle, such things could not be helped. The enemy would dispatch her, if she did not defeat them first.

She kept her footwork to tradition, not trying anything fancy as her friend was doing with his pair. Jacqueline was still tired from lack of sleep. She allowed her opponent to drive her back to the wall and then, when he thought he had her, she hopped upon a low section and vaulted gracefully over his head. Her blade cut down, halting at the junction of throat and shoulder. Jacqueline smiled ruefully as she commanded, "Yield."

The soldier spit at her in response.

"Fine," she said curtly. Her fist pulled back and smacked the disrespectful swine in the face. He toppled to the ground. Jacqueline rolled her eyes.

She turned around, preparing to help d'Artagnan with his two. He had managed to hold his ground and keep them at bay, but not drive either back or eliminate an opponent. She often wondered if he did things the hard way for his own masochistic amusement. Regardless, she rushed forward, preparing to enter the fray, when she caught a slip of red out of her peripheral vision. Her weapon came up just in time to block a blow that would have taken off her head. The attacker kept striking; her arm buckled under the weight and she tripped while trying to defend. As she landed on the ground, she rolled in an attempt to escape the soldier, but it was no use. Beyond her assailant stood eight men dressed in the garb of the order.

They were outnumbered.

The female musketeer tossed away her weapon when he ordered her to surrender. Pinned down under four men, d'Artagnan had no choice but to do the same.

———

Ramon and Sancia continued down the narrow expanse. The stairwell opened into a narrow hallway, barely tall enough for her to walk through. Sancia shivered, despite her cloak. The cellar was significantly cooler than above, and the dampness of the day translated to an even damper subterranean level. She prayed they had the children near a fire, but doubted that the men holding them would have such compassionate hearts.

At the other end of the hallway, a torch burned near the main stairwell that came down from the sanctuary. After struggling through the tunnel, she plucked it from the wall and began to search the rooms one-by-one while Ramon stood guard near the main entrance. Another wicked sense of déjà vu filled her. This place reminded her of the depths of the Bastille, just before she and Jacqueline were discovered by the guard. Luck must be on their side tonight; there was no way she would be forsaken twice in one day.

She paused briefly before the blackness of the last room on the hall. Sancia sent up a silent prayer that their search was not in vain, before crossing the threshold. She extended her arm, spinning to allow the firelight to illuminate the room. She stopped. Bound and gagged in the corner were four children — three boys and one girl — and beside them, her master was in an equal state.

Sancia stopped in her tracks. Her gold-hazel eyes glared down her nose at the serpent. Her left hand itched to swing the rapier in her other hand down upon Vesey and stop any future torments the man could inflict upon another powerless soul. He returned her hate-filled gaze, cursing through the rag tied around his mouth. She growled at him, taking a step and making a motion as if she would strike should he utter another syllable.

The slave girl refused to become a monster just to rid the world of another, especially not in front of the children she had worked so hard to protect. She never wanted anyone to see darkness in her actions, though it dwelled in thought. "Ramon," she called to her companion. "They're here."

She dropped to her knees and quickly cut the bonds on their hands. She allowed them to remove their gags and the ropes at their ankles, helping the smallest boy who couldn't have been older than seven.

"Sancia! Sancia!" they greeted in chorus. The little girl threw her arms around her neck, hugging her tightly. The child shivered uncontrollably.

"It's all right now. We're going to get you out here," the slave girl reassured. She cast another glare at her despicable master as Ramon came up beside her.

"No, you have to go," the oldest boy said. His voice was urgent; his eyes searched as if on alert.

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly. Fear spiked within.

"It's a trap, Sancia. They — they have guards waiting for you …" His warning was all it took for Sancia to go on full alert. She glanced to her master. A wicked smile had formed on his sallow face. He snickered through the gag.

The blonde let go of the little girl and sheltered the children behind her. She was good with a sword, in case it came to it, but now saw the wisdom in Ramon coming with her. They would need his seasoned arm.

"Stay here," the Spaniard ordered. He headed for the exit that led to the hallway, intending to survey their escape. But it was too late. He made it half way across the room before eight men dressed in black and donning leather masks barred their escape.

Ramon's weapon remained at the ready. His feet shifted into a fighter's stance, preparing for the attack. He and Sancia could handle eight by blade. But not by flintlock …

"Lower your weapons," the commander ordered. He held a blade in one hand and gun in the other. The man trained the gun on Sancia.

The Spaniard glanced back at his friend's sister, seeking permission to precede or yield. Sancia shook her head no. It was not what he wanted to see, but he left it to her wisdom. They had to protect the children, and surely someone would be hit in such close quarters. He dropped his weapons begrudgingly. The musketeer's rapier landed in the damp cellar dirt with his flintlock falling beside it. Sancia followed suit at his rear.

Charm wasn't going to get them out the way it got them in.


	28. Chapter 28

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Father's Friend **

For the tenth time, Sirocco Marcellus reread his father's script. He gripped the edges of the paper, on the verge of tearing the parchment in half as he worked through his emotions. Deep breaths, he took them one after another as he fought the urge to vomit. His family had been trapped and destroyed by the hands of Maurice Vesey. He had always suspected a connection; more so when Sancia mentioned their master's conversation with the Cardinal, and now, such knowledge was confirmed in his father's eloquent handwriting.

Siroc took another deep breath, trying to shake off the burning sensation coursing through his veins. His limbs tingled, itched for action against anyone, anything, but more importantly, against Maurice Vesey. Tears pooled near the edges of his eyes, formed from the depths of this emotional overload. The droplets never fully crested. They would not ease his ache for revenge. Only seeing Maurice Vesey on his knees in front of an execution block would serve the justice Siroc wanted. If what his father's letter said was correct, the young man would see his old master meet such an end. Justice would be his, but not in cold blood, he reasoned. As much as he wanted Vesey dead by his hand at the moment, vengeance would serve no means in honoring his beloved relations. And yet, even knowing that vengeance served no justice could silence the war between heart and mind.

Mustering his resolve, Siroc refolded the letter. He reached for the worktable and dragged his weary body up. His nails etched the top as he rose. He paused, bracing his body against the furniture. He felt light-headed and sick with this newfound knowledge. His ragged breathing continued, becoming quicker when the bile rose. He closed his mouth, determined not to retch. No more would he let Vesey have such control over him. No more would he unnerve him to the point of sickness. No more.

The inventor looked like death, but he had a greater purpose in mind now as he made his way out of his sanctuary and through the maze of halls in his stocking feet. He entered the common room, immediately eliciting looks and calls from his comrades-in-arms. Most of them had been out looking for him and his sister.

He only made it halfway through the main room before two lieutenants stepped in his path, barring him from his intended destination.

"Private," one addressed.

Siroc knew what was coming. He was about to be arrested again, and before he had the chance to speak to the captain. "Move," he retorted, not caring about the consequences of insubordination. He would not submit to them; Siroc would only submit to the commander of the garrison if Duval so wished him to do so.

"What did you say?" the second man barked.

The inventor was immediately rushed by several musketeers. They took him by the arms, and Siroc yelled in pain when they wrenched his left appendage. He jerked his right arm, nailing one of the uniformed soldiers in the stomach. He twisted his body, trying not to pass out from the pain the action educed from his right arm, and then shoved the man off balance. He stepped back to avoid the lieutenants now rushing at him, but they were on him before he could escape. The trio toppled to the floor, Siroc fighting the entire way down.

———

Duval barged out of his office with all the grace and joyfulness of a sleeping bear. His cane clacked loudly with each step and then slammed against the stone floor with a loud smack. The only thing louder was the boom of his baritone voice calling his men to attention. "What is the meaning of this?!"

Every body in the room froze, save the lieutenants dragging a disheveled man to his feet. It took the captain a moment to realize that the man in civilian attire, the haggard, half-dead creature, was a musketeer private, the very private most of the corps had been looking for. "Siroc?"

"Sir." The inventor's voice was hoarse.

"What is the meaning of this?" Duval inquired again; this time his voice held no bite, not for his closest friend's son. For twelve years, he thought the boy dead and buried, a boy he had sworn to his friend he would always protect. He had failed in his duty through no fault of his own; he hoped for years to atone.

"Sir," Siroc's hoarse voice came again. He struggled in the grasp of the other two musketeers. He yanked his good arm free. "You were a friend of Donatien Marcellus." It was more statement than question. He already knew the truth; he had read the letter.

"Your father," Duval said bluntly as if he had always known the inventor was his friend's son, "was my commanding officer when I joined the ranks _and_ my closest friend." He didn't elaborate, not in front of his other men.

"He trusted you with his life," Siroc said evenly. His body visibly shook.

Duval pondered what he believed the young man meant as a question. He hoped Donatien trusted him when he lived. He often had doubts, especially after his longtime friend didn't show up in Paris. He never learned why the man wanted to meet with him so urgently. Trouble was all, the then lieutenant, Duval fathomed; trouble that led to Donatien and Raissa's demise as heretics. He took in a long breath, and answered as truthfully as he could, "I'd like to think so."

"No, Sir," Siroc refuted, earning a slight glare from his commander, but Duval had misunderstood. "He _did_ trust you with his life … and _mine_." The inventor extended his right arm and turned it until his hand was palm up. Clutched in his grasp was the letter that changed a boy's world. He shook it, signaling for Duval to take it.

The captain did just that. "What is this?" he asked. He thumbed the broken seal and then noted his name and a former rank etched beneath it. The handwriting was unmistakable.

"I found it," Siroc responded, but said no more.

The inventor never was a man of many words, a fact unnerving Duval at the moment. The older musketeer wanted answers to many questions; some he felt would never come. He licked his lips, anticipating what he might find. As he began to read in silence, he could almost hear the voice of his oldest and dearest friend:

_Lt. Martin Duval_

_Musketeer Garrison_

_Paris_

_My old friend,_

_Strange misfortunes seem to plague the lives of many near Lyon and now I fear I have brought the darkness down upon my family. I scribe this letter in case the worst is realized and I do not make it to Paris to meet with you._

_Hidden within this notebook is a cipher, detailing the location of several important documents I have secured. Those documents reveal the actions of several noblemen in the Lyon area, particularly Maurice Vesey, and note crimes ranging from kidnapping and murder, to treason against our young monarch. I do not dare bring them with me to Paris. They are hidden, safe for the time being, and until we need them._

_Martin, please, should anything happen to me, protect Raissa and the children. My family is my life. I do not know what I should do if any harm were to befall them because of my actions. Sirocco and Sancia are special, and Sirocco especially will know my mind._

_Your friend,_

_Donatien Marcellus_

When Duval finished, he refolded the letter carefully, and placed it in the inside breast pocket of his tunic. "You've read this letter?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," the private returned.

"You have this book?" the commander countered quickly.

"Yes, Sir."

"Where is it?"

"In my laboratory." His words were almost breathless.

When the quick exchange ended, Duval noticed the audience watching the scene unfold. It grated on his nerves. "What are you all gawking at? Get back to your duties, all of you," he ordered in a gruff tone. His eyes narrowed upon the soldiers still flanking the boy. "That goes for you two."

"But, Captain," the one wrenching Siroc's left arm protested. "You're not going to arrest the private?"

Duval quickly put his body in the soldier's personal space and stared at him with a hard expression. "The private is in my custody, and if you dare question my authority again, I'll forget you are an officer." The threat came through clenched teeth and was enough to make both men scoot out of the way.

Having made his point, he turned his attention to the disheveled man. The very sight of him made him cringe. The boy's trousers fit, but the shirt was much too large. It was wrinkled, slightly dirty and half tucked in. What really disturbed the captain, now that he had a moment to assess Siroc, was the hallow features of his face. Dark circles crested beneath his gold-hazel eyes; bruises marred his handsome face; and his skin was sallow. His hair, normally combed back and neat, was dirty and unkempt. His bangs flopped in his face. The inventor had been shot, tortured, soaked and heaven only knew what else the last few days. _'So much for protecting him.'_

An aged hand fell upon the boy's good shoulder. "Siroc, let's see this book, then."

The young man nodded his head in affirmation and led his superior officer back to his sanctuary. He headed for the table and picked up the book, now in shambles. "Your letter mentioned a cipher, Sir." He flipped through the mess of pages. "My father actually has several, but I never decoded them; I didn't have the key." He handed the book to the captain, opened to a page with three poems that made absolutely no sense.

"His letter said you would know …" Duval read the gibberish, and then handed it back to the inventor.

"I have an idea, Captain, but I don't know for sure." Siroc shook his head. His wounds were getting the better of him. His usually astute mind was clouded, unfocused.

Duval placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder again. He hated seeing Siroc like this. The part of him that viewed the boy as his son wanted to send him straight to his room to rest and recover, but the solider wanted him to decode the second message. "If we can find where your father hid those documents, Siroc, it could change everything for you and your sister." He paused, and then offered something he rarely gave verbally. "I have faith you can do it."

Siroc's eyes turned cold as he looked at the older man. Those threatening tears again formed at the corners of his eyes. "Because of Vesey, my parents are dead." He practically spat the words, relinquishing some of the venom for his hated master with the thought.

"I understand that, son," Duval countered. He knew the pain of the loss of a friend, but he doubted that compared to the loss of a parent — particularly while so young and in such a devastating way. "Work on the cipher. In the meantime, I'm going to get some men together to bring Vesey in for questioning." Duval headed for the door.

"Sir," Siroc called, stopping his commander in his tracks. Duval turned back to the boy. "Vesey kidnapped several children. The others, they found them and went after them. He's there, Captain. Vesey is."

"D'Artagnan and Ramon succeeded?" Duval's voice rose sharply. He had hoped they would succeed, but wished they had come to him before rushing off blindly. There was no reason why they couldn't retrieve them the 'official' way.

Siroc nodded in affirmation, bringing a smile to the aged musketeer's face. It was going to be a long night, and for the first time in days, Captain Martin Duval couldn't have been happier. Vesey had much to pay for, and his path to justice would begin tonight.

———


	29. Chapter 29

_Author's note: This chapter is pretty much the culmination of three years of work on this story. I've envisioned it for a long time, dreamed it even, and it still makes my hands shake just thinking about it. For that reason, I am going to warn everyone now that this is not a chapter full of light-fluffy humor. This is the climax and, yes, it is dark. You have been forewarned. _

_A big thanks to Jean for all her hard work and help with this story and especially with the last four chapters. – Dani_

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Nine: To the Bitter End**

Three bound musketeers settled next to a woman. Beside her sat her master and four scared children. Nine lives waited in a row in the courtyard of a monastery. The holy vestige of this place had yet to pass with the wind. Sacred ground used for unholy deeds. Might did not make right; the demons found a way in.

The leader of the legions paced the row, glancing at his prisoners from head to toe. His holy red garb, the uniform of his corps, had been shed for his true skin, leather and black. The color matched his soul. He smiled with a sinister pleasure that only the sick of mind would understand. "Musketeers, slaves and their master." Laughter escaped with his words. He bent down, putting his face in d'Artagnan's. "I shall delight in ridding France of you in particular."

"Untie my hands and we'll see who rids France of whom," the legend's son returned with a venomous tone reserved for those he truly despised. Bernard, Captain of his Eminence Cardinal Mazarin's guard, was one such man.

Bernard struck the Gascon hard in the face, sending him toppling to his side. He laughed at the floundering figure trying to regain a sitting position. He wrapped his arms behind his back, clasping his hands together. His chest expanded with the gesture, puffing like a vain peacock.

"What's the matter, Bernard?" d'Artagnan said as he came back to his knees. He licked the oozing blood from his lip and smirked. "Afraid I'll best you — again?"

The captain bristled at the comment; his muscles tensed in ire. With a malicious growl, he bent back over, grabbing d'Artagnan's hair by the queue and yanking the Gascon's head back. "As if an insignificant whelp like you could ever …" he seethed through clench teeth.

With a hard pull on d'Artagnan's queue, Bernard threw the musketeer to the side. "Gag the musketeers and the girl," the captain ordered. He relished the Gascon's cry of pain and the curses of the man's friends. The other musketeers and the girl struggled against their binds, but quickly stilled when his men put blades to their throats.

A pair of knight's yanked d'Artagnan up by the forearms and forced him back into a sitting position on his knees. One held him as he shouted and struggled while the other gagged the solider with a ragged strip of cloth. They moved to Jacqueline next and then the Spaniard.

Seeing the Gascon forced into submission returned Bernard to his previous delight: his success. Like a pompous aristocrat, he once more wrapped his arms behind his back and puffed out his chest. In his imagination, he basked in the praises he would receive from the spiritual leader. After all, his orders had been simple: Deal with Vesey and the problems the man had drudged up.

The slave dealer had been careless for years, and his largest and first mistake had been the debauchery with a former musketeer, Donatien Marcellus. Bernard knew the story, even if he hadn't been in the Cardinal's service at the time. Mazarin had to swoop in to save his lackey when Marcellus had come close to exposing Vesey and more importantly, the order. Vesey had been a loose end for far too long, and Bernard had the distinct pleasure of tying up that end.

The musketeers were a bonus though. These three, along with the slave girl's brother, had caused him no end of trouble. They had thwarted his eminence's plans, which led to beatings with a whip for Bernard for his failures. He was punished when it was the privates that deserved such tortures. Soon, they too would pay for all their past mistakes and for not seeing the vision that was the Knights of the Black Tabernacle.

The captain stopped pacing, glancing at the blonde woman who had started all the recent trouble. Sancia's warm eyes had turned icy with the glare she held the man in. The very muscles around her mouth twitched with hatred and rage. Still, she was a lovely creature; one he would love to tame with the back of his hand, among other things.

Bernard squatted before his captive and waved his man away, who was about to gag her as well. He fingered the loose tendrils of her curly mane. "You know, your master considers you quite the prize." His fingers left her hair to skim her cheek and neck.

"Get your hands off of me," she barked. Sancia jerked her head, glad to be rid of his touch if only for mere seconds.

The captain grabbed her by the throat, forcing her to look at him. "Perhaps, I'll buy you, Wench, and teach you the true meaning of respect."

Sancia spat in his face. "Go to hell," she hissed.

Angered by her disrespect, Bernard didn't bother to wipe the moisture from his cheek before he hauled the petite woman up by her throat. Sancia struggled to rise, to get her feet beneath her, but it didn't matter. She didn't even come to the man's shoulder. She dangled from the end of his arm. Her toes barely kept her upright.

The three musketeers yelled inaudibly through their gags and struggled against their bindings. Ramon launched up from his knees toward Bernard, but was quickly dragged back to the ground before he could dislodge Sancia. His Spanish curses were lost through the wretched rag in his mouth. The poor children, although no longer gagged, were too afraid to voice their protests. They huddled closer together, whimpering in fear. The only member of the captors not fighting against restraint was her master, who soaked in her discomfort with the same fervor as the guardsmen.

Bernard drank in the torment, the fear in her wide eyes as she gasped for air, as if it were the finest wine of France. He savored these moments, when he felt true power course through his body and right into his hands. It saturated his being, intoxicating him to the core. A sinister smile crested upon his lips as Sancia's struggles slowed.

And then, Bernard's smile faded. Above the cries, the pleas and the curses, he heard a small explosion. His mind raced, wondering where he had heard the sound before. He turned his head in the direction of the noise. There at the edge of the courtyard, a man sat tall upon a branded horse. His face was barred by an outstretched hand, but within the rider's grasp, a flintlock was aimed for the Captain of the Cardinal's Guard.

The recollection of sound clicked in the knight's mind. He dropped the girl and hit the dirt. The ball rushed past and struck one of his subordinates square in the chest. The man toppled over backwards, still clutching his unsheathed weapon, which he had used to keep the musketeers in check. Utter confusion erupted around the captain.

"Musketeers!" several men shouted. The hiss of scraping metal reverberated against stone walls; the members of the order armed themselves, preparing for the onslaught of the men joining the lone shooter.

Bernard swore. He crawled across the damp earth, dodging running men and the stomping of several horses. He replaced his mask and then rose to his feet. His blood boiled in rage, having been thwarted by the musketeers once more. He was going to make them all pay, but not today. A fool could see that with the arrival of reinforcements, the men of the order were vastly outnumbered. He slunk into the shadows and engaged only when necessary to get away. His eminence would not be pleased.

———

Only the best horsemen could keep the dead-run set by the musketeer private. His body shifted in the saddle, avoiding tree branches and other obstacles in the road. Now paces behind him, his commanding officer led approximately two dozen soldiers. Their mission: Rescue several children, and arrest and hold Maurice Vesey while they concluded an official investigation into his business dealings.

For the musketeer Siroc, this nighttime mission meant more than a simple arrest; it was the final battle in a struggle Maurice Vesey had begun with the elder Marcellus. The very thought controlled his mind, pushed him on when he should be collapsed in a bed, recovering from his injuries.

Duval had argued the point in much the same way his sister and Jacqueline had. But Siroc had won. Perhaps it was the cold, determined gaze of the inventor that had swayed his commander, or perhaps Duval understood the boy's need to finally have control over his destiny. Donatien Marcellus had thought in much the same fashion — never leaving for another something that was his duty to conclude.

Siroc's horse reared up on its hind legs as he pulled the creature to a halt just outside the ruined walls. The stead's mouth frothed and foamed from the workout. Its eyes held a dazed, insane look as it tried to calm after the dead run. The horse's outward appearance embodied the turbulent emotions raging within the musketeer. He had been running his entire life, and now at the end, he struggled, out of breath and trying to recover. He felt his need for justice slipping in favor of vengeance. His conscience warred with the rage blazing at the heart of his soul.

He pulled hard on the reins, steadying the beast that danced beneath him. He scanned the scene, cursing when he saw his friends, his sister, four trembling children and the man he was forced to call master. They sat upon their knees with their hands bound behind their backs at the far end of the courtyard.

The blond growled in a primal rage when he watched a member of the order drag his twin up by the throat. His protective instinct peaked and Siroc pulled his flintlock. He leveled his good arm and aimed at his sister's assailant. No longer would he stand for anyone abusing the weak or the people he loved more than his own life. Mere seconds passed as he made sure his target would be struck.

As the hammer ignited the powder, the tiny metal ball exploded forth. He watched it travel with the speed of his racing heart. But at the last moment, his target dropped to the dirt, as did Sancia, and the smooth ball caught another square in the chest. It was only a heartbeat later that Dual and the other soldiers rode to a halt behind him.

As the battle cries sounded, Siroc dismounted and pulled his rapier. He held it firmly as he charged forth. The inventor took down everyone who dared get in his path. His sight was only for that of his twin and his friends struggling to get free in the midst of the erupting battle.

Siroc dropped to his knees behind his sister. He cut her bonds and then the Spaniard's, who had stumbled to her side. "Free the others," he said over his shoulder to his fellow musketeer. The inventor fussed over his sister, who was coughing and gasping for air. He turned her to face him and checked her with a sweep of his eyes. Relief washed over him at feeling her tangibility. He had feared the knight had stolen her from him when she dropped back to the earth like a ragdoll.

The inventor sheathed his weapon and then pulled her into a quick, one-arm hug. "Are you all right?" he demanded, when he pulled away. His hand slid down to her forearm.

Sancia continued to suck in air in deep, raspy gasps. One hand clutched at her throat, trying to soothe the pain radiating from her esophagus to the neckline beneath her ears. Her dazed eyes stared at him incoherently.

"Sancia," he practically yelled. Fear swelled within him for a moment.

The tone shook her out of the stupor. Sancia rattled her head from side-to-side, clearing away the haze. Her glassy eyes focused on her twin and her breathing began to regulate. The hand at her throat moved to touch her brother's cheek in a quick, but loving caress. "I'll be fine, Sirocco," she said hoarsely. "What — what are you doing here?" she questioned. Her eyes briefly scanned the mêlée before returning her attention to Siroc.

Golden eyes bore into similar facets. Just thinking about his father's letter and his life brought his anger bubbling forth. "He killed them, San." The words were dark, almost sinister, and contrary to his usual cadence. He hated Vesey for everything.

The longer she looked at him, the more Siroc unnerved his sister. Her hand clutched his arm. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his uniform coat. "Who?" she asked, hesitantly, but deep inside she too knew the answer.

"Vesey." The word hissed off his tongue. An overpowering darkness shrouded him.

Sancia tightened her grip on his sleeve, pulling him a fraction closer to her. "You know for certain?"

The private's hair fell in his face and over his eyes. He peered through the tufts of hair. The whites of his eyes were red from lack of sleep, but combined with the unfamiliar expression of pure hatred, the sight was unsettling. "Where is he?" Siroc asked coldly.

"He —" Sancia started. She frantically looked around. When the trouble started, her master had been right at her side, basking in her torment. Now in his place were the sawed ropes that bound his wrists and the man who Siroc had killed when he arrived. The dead man's rapier was gone.

"Sancia," her brother barked. "Where is he?"

The girl bit her lip. "I — I don't know, Sirocco!" she countered in a fear-tinged tone.

Siroc stood, pulling Sancia up with him. He pulled off his baldric and then the coat to his musketeer uniform. He wrapped it around his twin. His left arm was outside of his tunic, but wrapped in such a fashion so that his arm stayed close to his body. "Ramon," he called to his Spanish friend, who was about to dispatch yet another opponent. "Watch over my sister." The inventor ordered instead of asked. Looking down at his petite relation, he addressed her one last time. "Stay here."

After picking up his baldric, he slung the leather back over his head. His body turned, weight shifting as he rose to his full height. He surveyed the battle. Twenty-eight musketeers, including his friends and Duval, fought against the remaining fourteen traitors. His comrades were quickly mopping up the mess, and nowhere in the mix did he see the one man they had specifically come for. He growled in frustration.

"Sirocco?" He noticed his sister's presence behind him. "Where are you going?" Her sweet voice raised an octave in duress.

He continued to sweep the crowd; his eyes squinted, searching the woods in the area by the horses. He caught the movement near a black mare, a lone figure slithering away into the darkness. He let out a growl when his master looked back at the frenzy of soldiers and flashed that wicked smile that had chilled the inventor to the bone since his youth.

Siroc launched his body to set into a run, but as he took off, a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around. He glared at the person who dared stand between him and the object of his hatred.

"Where are you going?" Sancia demanded again. Her voice cracked with fear. The break was as startling as the thunder announcing an approaching storm, but not even it seemed to shake her brother back to reality. He was too far gone.

The man shrugged off her grasp without answering her question. His eyes immediately returned to his fleeing prey. He started to walk away once more, but Sancia grabbed him again. She stepped in his path and danced from side-to-side, countering his movements as he tried to dodge around her.

"You are not going after him, Sirocco," the woman said defiantly. "Not alone."

"Get out of my way, Sancia," the inventor barked and then tried to brush past her. She quickly barred his way. Her jaw was set; her features fierce from frantic determination. "Move," Siroc hissed again. Hatred rolled off the blond in waves. He would stand for no one stopping him, no one preventing him from bringing Maurice Vesey to justice.

"Please, Sirocco," Sancia begged this time. Her tiny hand touched his shoulder lightly, hoping to bring her brother down from his blind rage.

Siroc practically roared as he shrugged off his sister's touch. In the midst of his anger, he forgot his strength. The sheer force of his action sent Sancia stumbling backwards and to the ground as he pushed past. The inventor was determined to begin his hunt.

His sister's violent screams echoed in his wake.

———

It felt like a rush of air washing over her entire body; the fear that comes when watching someone slip away. The man who had cut her binds; the man who had just looked her in the eyes was a stranger with the face of her brother. Like minds no longer, she couldn't fathom what he was thinking.

Her heart lurched in her chest and she screamed his name again. She begged him to stop and not to follow. She dragged her body from the ground and raced forward a few steps, but Siroc was already on his horse, pursuing Vesey into the blackness of the forest.

She didn't understand why he had to follow alone. They could still catch Vesey; his crimes had come to light. No matter how far the monster ran or how fast, the laws of his majesty would punish him for his sins against humanity, the crown and their family. So, why did Siroc go? Why did he go alone instead of waiting for his friends? Sancia could only think of revenge. She frenetically searched the courtyard for the other musketeers she trusted.

The fight had ended as quickly as it began. Those left alive were bound by members of her brother's corps, guarded and secure. The children huddled in a corner of the church yard. Several soldiers coaxed them forth. Her brother's commander directed the clean up with the ease of a general instead of a mere captain. At his side, d'Artagnan and Jacqueline carried his orders out, while Ramon took distinct pleasure in tying up his former captors.

"Ramon, d'Artagnan, Jacques!" she screeched. Sancia rushed toward them. "He — he went after him; he'll kill him." Her hurried words matched the erratic beating of her heart. Her arms flailed in distress.

"Sancia, calm down." Jacqueline tried to reason. She closed what little gap remained between them. "What are you talking about?" Her words were gentle, formed in a fashion to coax thinking instead of panic.

"Sirocco — he went after Vesey." Tears began to pool at the edges of her eyes. For all her beliefs of not showing weakness, she was about to show it now. She couldn't lose him too, not to Vesey; not after the snake had also stolen her parents from her. "He'll kill him."

"Senorita, even injured Siroc is a capable fighter." The Spaniard sheathed his weapon and straightened his baldric across his chest. His dark orbs glanced towards the horses; his body itched to follow his friend.

She spun, like a cat pouncing upon prey. "I know that." her words were clipped and almost scathing from her distress. Sancia brushed back her hair and followed Ramon's gaze in the direction her twin had disappeared. "Sirocco is going to kill Vesey. He had our parents killed. He's going to kill him."

"And that's a bad thing?" d'Artagnan pointed out. He feigned innocence when Jacqueline shot him an irritated look. But, even he felt the urgency to pursue his friend. The Gascon had issues with his own father over the death of a parent. Granted it wasn't in the same fashion Siroc and Sancia had endured.

"Let's go, mis amigos; we're going after him," Ramon announced. He took Sancia by the arm and began marching toward the horses. Their compatriots followed not two steps behind. "Capitanee?" he followed his address with a shout.

"I heard, Ramon — bring him back." Duval's rich baritone boomed in this sacred place. How could he have not heard the frantic shrieks of Donatien's daughter? "Both of them," he ordered. The captain returned to issuing orders to the men around him, leaving a trusted trio to the final results. He had too much to handle at the moment, but Vesey — and Siroc — were a priority, despite his inability to follow as he too wished.

———

Nothing could quell the thunderous rumble of hooves upon the earth through the ancient groves of oak. The dense undergrowth fought back by clawing and scratching at the legs of the passers-by that dared disturb their home. The crystalline fog hung just above the sodden earth. It puffed and swirled in retreat as the beasts hammered past, only to quickly resettle in its latter home.

It was dark along this route, but the night was darkest before the dawn, when the world was left without the celestial lights to guide a traveler home. These travelers were not heading home. One fled; one pursued with thoughts of vengeance clouding his judgment. The man who could see possibility in a pile of rubble; the man who questioned and explored everything from flight to why it thundered, could not get past a simple thought: The bastard before him killed his mother, killed his father.

The horses cleared the thicket and entered a vast meadow. The pursing steed cut the distance with each stride, bringing the musketeer closer to the serpent, the very devil that had wreaked chaos upon his world. Bent on destruction, Siroc rose in the stirrups. The lean muscles of his thighs tightened to remain balanced at the daring speed. One stride, then two, and then three. The inventor launched his body at Vesey. The force of the leap dislodged the master of slaves, of pain, of hell.

The pair hit the ground hard, rolling upon impact. Siroc held tightly to Vesey. Even before they had stopped, the musketeer punched at the pitiful excuse of a man. He wanted to damage him the way Vesey had damaged the scientist. But sheer will alone would not make the slave dealer yield. Vesey struggled against the boy, landing a few of his own licks in order to get away.

Vesey was the first to his feet and to pull a rapier. He spat at the blond, who quickly leaped to his feet. The boy already looked haggard and sickly from earlier injuries, yet the drive behind his golden eyes blotted out the pain. He too withdrew his weapon from the safety of its sheath. Feet in fighting stance and his blade level, he circled the slave dealer.

The musketeer prowled. A growl echoed low in his throat, primal in its tone, and a reflection of the loss of his sophisticated mind. He was not thinking clearly, which was never a good sign when entering into battle. Ramon had goaded him countless times to move beyond technique, to become one with the blade, and draw upon both skill and desire. Siroc was beyond the flawless points of attack and thoroughly in the realm of passion — too far in the realm. Recklessly, he advanced. His blade swung mercilessly and quickly. Vesey retreated trying to keep up with the quick strokes threatening to remove his head.

"Oh, come now, boy, is this all you can muster," Vesey challenged. He laughed in the face of the onslaught. The slave dealer would be arrogant to the last, as if he were unbreakable. But even stone walls crumbled.

Another animalist growl erupted from Siroc's throat. He pushed harder on his master, a little too hard. Vesey side-stepped, forcing the inventor off balance. He stumbled a few feet, almost completely losing his footing. He barely whipped around in time to block a blow directed at his neck. He caught it, holding his master at bay. Siroc put all his weight on his right leg and in a slightly less-than-graceful move considering his injuries, he spun like a dancer — or seasoned fighter — dropped down and kicked out to sweep Vesey's feet.

The slave owner jumped up, avoiding the action. He backed away from the musketeer to assess the situation. He smiled ruefully. "Truly I expected better of a musketeer, the famed fighters in his majesty's service. But then you were always worthless." Laughter rumbled in his chest, but did not cross his lips. "Tell me, boy, how does it feel to know your father begged for his life on his knees while my men violated your mother? He was as worthless and ignorant as you, to think he could take down the Black Knights. And you, standing there now, acting as if God is on your side." Vesey lunged, nearly skewering Siroc. "Well he's not."

The boy shifted his midsection and jumped to the side, barely escaping the attack. The effects of his earlier injuries were beginning to sap the strength he had found to instigate this battle. He panted heavily now. Sweat beads dotted his brow, but his eyes blazed with a new-found anger over his master's comments. "My father gave up everything to protect our king; there is no nobler sacrifice than to die for the greater good." Siroc advanced, slicing through the air and connecting with steel in a quick series of strikes, before he retreated once more. "And men like you will never prevail so long as men like my father exist in this world."

Vesey tossed his head back, laughing over the very idea, the utter naïveté. "You simple-minded, idealistic fool. You defend a king, who would send a soldier into battle, simply to gain lands and fortune. What is so different from what he does than what my order is trying to accomplish? Power — you are nothing in this world without it."

"And you are simply nothing," Siroc countered in a low tone. "You never held power, just the illusion of it; like a reflection in the mirror, it's gone when you turn away. And the king I serve uses power to create prosperity for all of his people — _not_ just the greedy few." He began to circle once more. "Surrender Vesey. Your death warrant has already been issued. Live a little longer or die right here."

Vesey countered each of Siroc's steps. He wasn't a novice fencer, and he knew he had the upper hand. Patience was not his virtue, but useful in this fight. The boy would fall before the break of dawn. Even now the gray light of its approach shimmered in the eastern sky. "I prefer to live," he said curtly.

The words were barely off of Vesey's tongue when he saw his opening. Siroc was weakening the longer he delayed. The inventor wobbled in his footing as his body began to come down from the fire-driven frenzy. The slave owner advanced, pushing hard and pushing fast. He drove Siroc back, continuing to do so in his relentless, cold fashion. Catching the blade, he slid his sword so the weapons were locked hilt to hilt and then slammed his left fist into the side of the inventor's face.

Siroc fell backward, landing on his backside. With his left arm out of commission, he was at a disadvantage. Still on the ground, he scampered back the best he could in order to put some distance between himself and Vesey. He had to get back to his feet, but the wild cuts Vesey unleashed upon him kept the boy occupied with blocking them. The inventor wasn't fast enough; he just couldn't get away. A breath later, Vesey managed to dislodge Siroc's weapon and send it flying after a quick rotation of the wrist. The tip of Vesey's rapier settled at the musketeer's throat.

The musketeer kept his eyes locked with the devil before him. He inched back in retreat, drawing his boot up toward his hands as he back-pedaled. Discreetly, he fingered the rim of his footwear. His fingertips caressed the hilt of the dagger hidden within; the weapon slipped up into his palm, sheltering it from Vesey's sight. The madman had his eyes on another prize, after all, that of the death of the man before him.

"Pathetic, boy." Vesey hissed. "Easily dispatched, just like your father." The man drew the weapon back, preparing for the final blow. His hand faltered at the last minute; his attention was drawn to a _fervent_ shout.

———

Sancia screamed in horror as the foursome drew their horses to a stop at the edge of the meadow. The dim light of the morn now crested in the sky just enough for her to see her brother on the ground with Vesey's blade at his throat. She had entered a nightmare, one in which she was about to lose her twin brother to a murderer, a kidnapper and a traitor.

She caught her master's eyes and the sinister smile upon his face. It was the wicked smile that formed just before he had his way. She kicked her legs over the saddle and landed on her feet. She ran toward her brother. She could sense the presence of his friends not far behind. They had to reach him, before that final blow.

Vesey looked back at the boy and brought the blade down. Sancia screamed again. "Sirocco." Tears rolled down her cheeks like rain. The blade struck dirt; her brother rolled away at the last instant. His right arm arched up, connecting with Vesey's stomach. She stopped running and stared in horror.

Her brother slowly rose to his feet. His golden eyes gazed emotionlessly into the darker orbs of his former master. Vesey's arm shook before the sword fell from his hand, and then the slaver followed it to the ground. He cursed the Marcellus name as he died.

Sancia took in a shuddering breath and raced the final distance to her brother. She groped at his arms, trying to draw his attention away from Maurice Vesey. "Sirocco? Sirocco?" she repeated his name until she gained his attention. "Are you all right?" He nodded his head in affirmation, but did not speak.

The woman looked at her brother's right hand. It clutched the dagger to the point his knuckles had turned white beneath the fresh blood. She swallowed hard at the sight and then noticed his gaze had shifted to the same thing she was looking at. "It's over, Sirocco," she comforted softly. "Give me the dagger." He did not relinquish the instrument of death. "Give me the dagger," she ordered again, and this time took it from him.

She bent down to the grass and wiped off the blade before tucking into the bands of her skirts. A wave of emotion rolled through her: disbelief, uncertainty and even heartache. The last was reserved for her brother. He was a kind, gentle soul, who had been pushed into a blind rage. Vengeance had come down upon Maurice Vesey by a hand she thought would never deal it.

Sancia swallowed hard and then wrapped her arm around her brother. His body collapsed against hers as he finally reached a breaking point. Before she realized it, Ramon was at his other side, assisting her with her twin. They carried him back toward the horses while d'Artagnan and Jacqueline dealt with Vesey.


	30. Chapter 30

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Thirty: Haunted Minds**

A single candle burned at Siroc's bed side. He stared at the flicker of light, casting dancing shadows upon the walls. He had slept the better part of two days, allowing his body to heal. Occasionally his sister would slip into his quarters and check him over to make sure the physical maladies hadn't become infected. He remembered the gentle touch of her hand brushing through his hair when he'd open his eyes. But he had been exhausted and sleep claimed him again quickly. He'd wake later after torturous dreams, drenched in sweat and panting for breath. Sleep may have helped to heal many of his aches, but it could not remedy the breakdown of his mind. Such horrific images haunted his subconscious.

The passage of time felt abstract and intangible when lost in heavy matters. He had opened his eyes a few hours before, caught the flicker of the candle light, and began to consider probabilities and mathematics to distract his thoughts from his nightmares. He started by calculating how long it would take for the wax to fully melt giving the rate of burn, but that had only taken him a few minutes. He would know soon if his calculation had been accurate. The stick had rapidly turned into a blob upon the table top and barely a nub remained.

While he waited for the simple science of his mental distraction to unfold, his mind wandered to other probabilities and to the 'what ifs' of where he went wrong in life. He had killed Maurice Vesey, but why had he done it? He could have waited for his friends and sister, and then apprehended the slaver in a fashion worthy of a musketeer. But going back further in the analysis of his actions, he could have even stayed out of Paris until after the auction and Vesey was gone. Siroc liked the possible outcomes of that scenario about as much as he liked becoming a man his father would have despised, a murderer like Maurice Vesey.

Within those hours of thought spawned by nightmares, Siroc had concluded one thing. He still firmly believed what he told Sancia: He wouldn't change a single moment of those two days or his fight to free her from the serpent's grasp. What he so desperately wanted to forget was the blind hatred that took hold, dictating his actions and overshadowing all coherent thought. Siroc was rational, thoughtful; he questioned everything and found answers where others didn't dare to look. On some level, he had arrogantly believed that he was above such archaic and primal actions, because he let knowledge and intellect rule. And yet in a pivotal moment, he had acted with malice, with hate, tossed his beloved sister aside and pursued Vesey alone. In the end, his hand had been forced to take a life in a situation all of his making. He knew his parents would not be proud.

The door to his room opened. He didn't look to see who entered, nor did he care. He wanted to be left alone to ponder his fate. Could he ever forgive himself for his brash actions? Would his parents? Would Sancia? Would God?

"Sirocco?" Sancia sat on the bedside him. She brushed back a stray lock of his dirty blond hair. "You're finally awake."

The musketeer sighed and closed his eyes. Perhaps if he went back to sleep, God would be kind enough to grant him better dreams and he could shut out this malady of his mind. He felt her fingers toil more in his hair, trace his brow, the side of his face and then the curve of his ear before brushing back through the tangled mess atop his head. The tension released from the muscles in his shoulders; he let his sister soothe him, to help chase away his demons with her touch. "Sancia," he said softly.

"Yes." Her gentle cadence reminded him of their mother's and in that moment, he wished she were there beside him instead. For if Raissa was, it would mean the last twelve years of his life had been a nightmare and he had not murdered a man who should have instead stood trial.

"Do you think God will forgive me?" he asked solemnly.

Her hand stilled. "For what, Sirocco?"

"For taking vengeance." Siroc opened his eyes, staring mournfully into his sister's wide orbs. How could she be shocked over his words? She had been there when he snapped and shoved her aside. She had been there when he delivered the blow that ended Vesey's life. She knew what he had done as well as he did.

"I," she started hesitantly and then continued boldly, "Is that what you think you've done, Sirocco? Because killing Vesey wasn't vengeance."

"It feels like it," he admitted. His lips pursed into a severe frown.

"Sirocco, you are a musketeer. You have been forced to kill — to defend your life in battle — just as you were _forced_ to kill Vesey _before_ he killed you. So why does it bother you now?"

"It has always bothered me, Sancia. To take a life — something so precious — it should always be a last resort."

"You sound like father," she said nonchalantly. "But knowing now that he was a musketeer, it is safe to assume that even he took a life or two. And you know the value he placed upon the individual."

"It's different," Siroc emphasized, trying to find the reasoning, the logic to make his twin understand his ailment. He inhaled deeply. "When I took a life before, Sancia, it was in preservation of my life or defending our king and country. But with Vesey…" He gritted his teeth. "I know he would have killed me had I shown mercy, but — I — wanted him gone. I wanted to — to do to him everything he had done to me, and to you. I wanted him to die, and I followed him with the intent to kill him."

"And so you feel as if you've taken vengeance?"

"Yes."

Sancia remained silent, considering her brother's words. "Do you remember what mother use to say when we'd fight?" She continued when Siroc didn't respond. "That forgiveness is rooted in love and that life must be lived with love."

"I never understood that," he responded softly.

"I think she meant that you have to forgive others and well as yourself, Sirocco," Sancia interpreted. "It is much easier to hate than it is to love after all." She sighed, wondering if she was getting through to him. She took his face in her hands to make sure he was paying attention. "Sirocco Donatien Marcellus, everything you do is for the good of someone else — be it me, France, the king. You would not feel guilt if it were truly vengeance. You would be satisfied in Vesey's death. But that's not who you are. You have always sacrificed for others. That part of you has not changed by simply feeling relief in Vesey's death. Vengeance is to rejoice in death. You are hardly rejoicing and frankly, I am grateful to God that you are still here with me."

He pondered her words with the same scrutiny as any experiment. By his logic, he had taken vengeance; he had pursued Vesey with the intent to kill him. He felt relief in Vesey's death, because his death meant the end of a nightmare. However, Sancia was correct. He couldn't rejoice in anyone's death — not even a hated enemy. As he was precious to Sancia and his friends, so were they to others. "We are all precious to those who love us," he said quietly, just above an audible whisper.

Sancia smiled the same joyful smile that always lifted his world. "Now that sounds like my brother."

Siroc shook his head, negating her observation. "No, father once said that." The inventor would never forget the circumstances: A woman clung to her child. The infant had died in the night, but Sirocco didn't understand why she wailed, why she wouldn't relinquish the baby for burial. He was four or five at the time and still did not understand the frailty of life. When he had asked his father why the woman was so upset, Donatien said those very words.

Sancia leaned in and pressed her lips to his forehead and then withdrew. She smiled, and laughed at her own ironic thoughts. "It's funny …" Her voice trailed off.

"What is?" he queried.

"That we are individuals, yet are still a part of the people who touch our lives." It was a comforting idea for both twins.

"They live in us," he echoed her sentiment. His severe frown inched up into a wisp of a smile. He was his father's son; he was his father's legacy. Although still convinced his actions were not right, Siroc wanted to believe that his father — in all his wisdom — would understand what had driven his son to such brash deeds. His parents would not have been proud, but they, like Sancia, would have helped him to understand his weaknesses and thus turn them into strengths.

"Precisely." She kissed him once more on the forehead. "If you are feeling better, I shall bring you something to eat later on. I need to speak with Duval first about a few matters."

Siroc grabbed his sister's hand, staying her from leaving. "Did he get confirmation about the children yet?" Before they had left for the monastery, the captain had mentioned his discreet inquires into kidnappings, murders and additional reports from the other garrisons. He had hoped that they could connect the children to at least one or two foul deeds and thus Vesey — of course that would all be in addition to Donatien's documents now.

Sancia nodded. "The messengers he sent are back, but I think it shall be a few more days before we can present everything to his highness. We are still waiting on d'Artagnan, Jacques and Ramon to return from Lyon with the documents father hid." She tilted her head to the side. "How did you break father's cipher, Sirocco? I've been looking over his notebook and the cipher while you slept, and I cannot figure out the key word." She shrugged, dismissing it, but still feeling inept. "I even tried mother's name."

Siroc chuckled; he always did prefer a challenge of the mind, and thus never revealed the answer unless it was obvious the solution was above the person's realm of comprehension. Sancia was fantastic at ciphers and puzzles, because they dealt with words, keys and patterns. "Did you read Duval's letter?"

Sancia nodded. "Yes, several times." She shook her head in annoyance. "He mentions mother, you, me; I just assumed he would use mother's name or one of ours because father thought family was so important."

"Precisely," Siroc stated. She had hit the nail and, to his amusement, Sancia had failed to realize it.

She crossed her arms across her chest and arched one of her light brows. "Precisely what, Sirocco?"

He rolled his eyes. "Family was the most important thing to father, Sancia. Yes, that includes mother, you and me, but you were thinking too specifically."

Her lips formed an 'o' shape as it dawned on her what exactly he meant. "Family." She let the word slip off her tongue as her mind toyed with the simple word that had locked away so many secrets for years. Yet in one night, her beautifully brilliant brother had managed to crack the cipher by 'reading between the lines' of Duval's letter. All he need was a hint, and Siroc had nailed it — just like when they were children. "I'm entirely jealous that you figured it out before I did. It's not like I haven't tried to crack those ciphers before."

"It's not a competition, Sancia," he stated evenly. But in truth, it had always been a competition from the day they were born. They had thrived on besting each other, despite their fierce determination to do everything together. Sancia had been his only real competition and he had been hers. Their like minds thrived on challenges and so it had been a race to see who could do what first. Naturally Sancia had developed skills in areas he had no interest, and he the same. Together, they had formed two parts of a whole, and along the way, they had found strength apart as well.

"You are right," Sancia shot playfully. "After all, Sirocco, being second born … you naturally cannot help but be second best. As if you were ever any _real_ competition…" Her melodic laugh filled the room when Siroc glared at her. The sound ceased only when the sudden darkness shocked her. "The candle …" she started.

Her twin interrupted with a fervent shout. "Ha! My math was right."

———

Sancia inhaled deep into her lungs, letting the sensation refresh her. There was no need to be nervous and yet, she was. Captain Duval had barely spared her a handful of words over the past two days, and when he did, they were in relation to her sleeping brother. She caught the older musketeer staring on occasion, only for him to avert his gaze when he realized she had noticed his attention.

Her delicate hand rapped against the lacquered wood of Duval's door. She waited for a call to enter before opening the barrier and crossing the threshold. Nervously, she smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress. It was a blue frock Jacqueline had lent her, nothing fancy, but respectable. She had a feeling it was Jacqueline's dress, from her life before the musketeers, even sewn by her hand. "Captain."

The officer scratched a quill across a piece of parchment. Expecting one of his soldiers and not the petite daughter of his closest friend, the sound of her voice sent the writing instrument slightly off course. A trail of ink continued in a jagged line below the rest of the script. If the body before him had been anyone but Sancia, they would have received a gruff retort. "What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Marcellus?" His wise eyes lifted to look upon her.

Sancia shifted from foot to foot, feeling slightly uneasy under his gaze. "You don't like having me here, do you, Sir?" she asked pointedly. It was only one of the many topics she wished to breach with him — why exactly he stared at her like she was fish out of water.

Duval replaced the quill in the inkwell. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "Why do you think that?"

Sancia brushed a long blonde strand back from her face. The curly tendril looped behind the curvature of her ear. This was not an easy topic, but she wanted to know why he watched her as if she were a phantom, only to turn away when she noticed. "You've barely spoke to me the past two days; you avoid me. I — I am my father's daughter. I do not easily miss things."

Duval seemed to ponder her accusation. "I do have a garrison to run, Mademoiselle. Have you considered that?"

Sancia licked her lips, slightly uneasy. "I am aware of that, Sir." She paused briefly, measuring the man her father called friend. "And I am also aware that your messengers returned with information regarding the children. I have to wonder if there was something in those notes. Something regarding me? Which is why you've been avoiding me?"

For the first time since she entered the office, Duval averted his eyes. "There was," he said solemnly, but did not elaborate.

The young woman's throat choked. She took a step toward his desk to keep from jumping out of her skin. She would remain composed at all cost. "I pray you, Sir. Tell me. I think I already know, but — I should like to know for certain so that I can — so that I may prepare my brother." Tears began to form at the edges of her amber-hazel eyes.

The captain inhaled deeply and then shoved up on the desk to rise to his feet. Rounding the furniture, he came to stand before the young woman. He placed his hands on her shoulders. "And why do you believe you must prepare Siroc for anything?"

"Because I am just as guilty as Vesey." Her words were breathless and her hand flew to her mouth. Sancia could hardly believe she had uttered them. "My sins are just as great, Sir." The tears began flow. "It — it was through me that he hurt so many people, destroyed so many lives. And I — I tried my best to prevent what I could — but the things I've done…" The young woman could hardly breathe. "I need to know what the reports say, because when we face the king, I don't want — I don't want anything to come as a surprise to Sirocco."

Duval fought the urge to pull her into his arms. "Sancia," he started, but his throat choked. This was Donatien and Raissa's child. He could no more let anything happen to her then he could Siroc, or his own son should he have had one. He cleared away the frog in his throat and kept his voice strong. "I will not pretend that the reports I received sing with your praises. But I want you to understand that _I_ will not let anything happen to you further. _I_ will present your case to his majesty, along with the reports I've received and the documents your father secured." He paused, taking a breath. "You should know that among my reports are five testimonies about a young woman, who did everything in her power to warn several of the king's loyal supporters against Maurice Vesey."

"It does not absolve me of my sins, Captain," Sancia countered with conviction. Her brother had fought so hard to free her, to save her from Vesey, that she couldn't bear to tell him the depth of her involvement. She was certain Siroc knew that she had done horrible things, but he didn't know she had traded her very soul to the devil, Vesey, just to survive. "There are just as many who want my head."

Duval dropped his hands from her shoulders. He knew the depth of the testimonies scribed against her, but he also knew what they had said for her. He had watched her fight, struggle and protect those children, her brother and everything she held dear with her very life. Those things counted for something, and he felt his king would side in her favor. "Have faith, Sancia. Only God can absolve you of yours sins, but I believe the king will grant you justice."

Sancia sniffled and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I have not had true faith, Captain, since the night my parents were murdered and my brother almost died in my arms." Her hands shook horribly as the images replayed in her mind. The wound on Siroc's head had bled profusely, covering her skirts and hands. Yet, she had kept his head in her lap, stroking his hair and praying in the fashion her mother had taught her that everything would be all right. Her brother had lived and so had she, but in a half-life wrought in misery. It wasn't until two days ago, when Siroc had nearly died for her freedom that she realized her prayers had been answered after twelve long years. They were both free now, but Sancia still had much to atone for. She had faith, but it waivered in the midst of her fear.

"If that is true, then I hope you will at least trust me," Duval countered. She barely knew him, but he hoped he had at least garnered her trust in the way he had pursued this case. He withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

The woman took it and cleaned away the tears that remained on her face. "Thank you, Sir." She returned the cloth to its owner. "And know, that if I didn't trust you, I would have already said my good-byes to Sirocco and left."

Duval nodded in understanding. With a sigh, he returned to his chair and reclaimed his seat. "If there isn't anything else, then I should get back to my work …"

Sancia knew a dismissal when she heard one. She smiled and thanked him and turned to leave. But something else struck her — he knew her parents far better than anyone. She halted and glanced back to the aged musketeer, who was already scribbling away again. "Sir, one more thing?" she asked.

The musketeer looked up at her. "Of course."

"Will you tell me about my parents? More I mean. I feel like I hardly knew them." She sent up a prayer that he wouldn't toss her out for such a bold request.

The captain's face softened into at thoughtful expression. He put the quill back in the inkwell and then smiled at the girl. "I think I can make time for that …"

Grateful for the captain's concession, Sancia took a seat across the desk from him. The orphan girl wanted very much for her parents' memories to live on in her. They had helped her brother and maybe they would help her find a way to atone for all the wrong she had done as well.

———


	31. Chapter 31

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Thirty-One: The Knowledge Within**

The dawn pressed against the night, slowly dismantling the shroud of darkness blanketing the world. Siroc could feel it, as surely as he felt the chill in the air — the chill that always felt sharper in the waning hours of night.

The inventor sat with his back pressed against his headboard. His golden eyes stared at the dying flames of the once-roaring fire, assessing the effects of time. Time passed; the fire died. Time passed, and the aches of his body began to subside. Some were mere pinpricks compared to the former pain, while his shoulder still throbbed with every twitch of his muscles. In time, even that pain would fade into nothingness, just like the embers in the hearth.

He had had time to contemplate the greater mysteries of life, and even the mundane, while holed up in his quarters. Sancia still attended him regularly, seeing to his needs and even spending endless hours talking with him when he felt stir-crazy. He ached to lock himself in his laboratory, but then a wave of fatigue would strike, and the musketeer would sleep for a day. His body was still healing; his strength peaking, and then plummeting against his desires.

This morning, however, he was fully alert. He occupied his mind with analytical thought, only because it was too early to rouse the captain with the other matters keeping him awake. Jacques, d'Artagnan and Ramon would return soon. And upon their arrival, Siroc and Sancia Marcellus would face the king, with the captain. If God was on their side, the evidence against Maurice Vesey would set them free and spare his sister's life. His entire body ached for action, overshadowing the remaining pain ebbing through his body in waves; his patience had grown thin.

As the last embers gasped for life, Siroc noticed the blackness of his room had shifted to a faint gray hue. And thus, the captain could not claim he had disturbed him in the middle of the night, when the sky had clearly brightened to early day. He had bid his time long enough.

With his good arm, the inventor tossed aside the blankets covering his lower extremities. The leggings of his britches were rumpled and pushed up to his knees from having slept in them. He kicked his legs over the side and shook them until the lengths fell straight. He trembled slightly as he rose to his full height. His bare feet padded against the cold, wooden floor toward the wardrobe. He pulled open the hinged doors and grabbed a fresh, white shirt from its depth. He struggled into the cloth, leaving his bandaged arm underneath, instead of trying to pull it through the sleeve. The genius was capable of many things, but not contortion — which was what fully dressing would have amounted to with his injuries.

He paused in front of a small mirror and attempted to tuck in the shirt. He managed to get most of the fabric into the top of his britches; however, the lengths actually in and out of the waistband varied, giving him a rumpled, unruly appearance. Coupled with his creased britches and his blond hair hanging wildly from his crown, the inventor appeared more maniacal than intelligent.

The muscles in his back began to tense as he made his way to the door. The strain of movement made his shoulder burn, but he ignored the pain. He opened the door, slipped into the hall and then clicked the barrier shut behind him. The lamps flickered at either end of the hallway, but no longer served as the only source of illumination in the corridor. Outside the window at the end of the hall, the birds had begun their morning song, calling the sun to fully come forth into the day. The higher melodic tones mingled with a series of lower tones echoing down the passageway from the common room. The murmurs rose in volume, becoming whispers and then spoken words by the time he reached the threshold to the central area.

The stench of horses hung pungently in the air, centered around three soldiers standing before a bleary-eyed captain. Their boots and uniforms were caked in mud, damp and disheveled from days of travel. Still, the trio appeared more alert than the commander who had been awoken upon their return.

"This is it, Captain," d'Artagnan assured — the first true words that greeted the genius' ears. The legend's son held a burlap sack in his fist. His grip slackened, keeping hold of the frayed edge, but allowing it to open. His free hand fished into its depths and pulled a square, gilded object. The gold shimmered in the low light, reflecting flecks of red and orange from the fire burning in the large fireplace behind them. He handed it over to his commander.

Siroc sucked in a breath from the end of the hall where he watched. Each edge of the box, save the bottom, had elaborate pictures carved into a series of panels. Four claw-like feet descended from the bottom, but even those were ornamented with the stems of a flower — roses. The buds bloomed, protruding slightly from the lid. As Duval rotated the heavy piece, Siroc received a better view of the lid and the ornate flourish not a part of the artisan's original design — the crest of the Marcellus family, engraved in such a fashion as to blend with the metalwork.

"Did you read the contents?" Duval asked. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tried to remove the lid, but it wouldn't budge.

"No, Sir. It's locked, but it was buried exactly where the cipher said it would be," Jacques answered. "We couldn't find how to release the lid, and there are no key holes."

The captain's eyebrows narrowed farther, wrinkling his forehead. "Hmm." He continued to move the box around in his hands, caressing the designs in search of a hidden latch. "Did you run into any trouble?" he asked; his eyes remained focused upon the object in his hands.

"We were pursued by more masked men — like those at the ruins — most of the way to Lyon, Sir. We managed to lose them long enough to retrieve that, and had to take several detours on the way back," d'Artagnan confirmed. He separated from the group and draped the sack on the tabletop. He then pulled off his leather gloves, stretching his newly freed fingers. He rubbed his hands together, warming them after the cold, hard ride, and then raised them to his mouth to warm them with his breath.

"Was Bernard with them?" Siroc asked, finally stepping fully into the common room. A small smile lifted the edges of his mouth when the quartet jumped at the sound of his voice. He gaited slowly over to them.

Duval's eyes locked immediately with the inventor, while Jacques and Ramon spun around to face their brother-in-arms and d'Artagnan jumped in his seat. It was Ramon who came out of the surprised stupor first. "No, amigo. We do not believe he was with the others pursuing us."

"I've sent musketeers to look for the captain, but I'm afraid if we haven't found him now, we probably won't," Duval added. The gray-haired soldier sighed. "He is well-connected, Siroc."

"He also tried to kill my sister," the inventor countered nonplus. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing back the blond mess from his face. "I'd like to see that at least his majesty has the option of returning the favor." The seriousness of his expression was almost alarming. "But that is another matter," he concluded logically. He was past vengeance. He only wanted to know the king's justice had been served. "May I see it, Sir."

The captain did as requested, relinquishing the golden piece to his subordinate. "Do you know how to open it?"

As Siroc took the box, the weight alone almost caused it to slip from his fingers. It was heavier than he remembered, but just as beautiful as when it had set upon Donatien's desk in his study. He used to keep private letters within its depths or even surprises he had purchased for the children's mother. It, like his father, was a complexity, and seeing it again brought a smile to the inventor's face. "My father never made anything easy, Captain," he returned vaguely as he joined d'Artagnan at the table. The others followed him. Siroc set it on the tabletop, and his fingers skimmed the carved pictures along the front panel.

"You recognize it?" d'Artagnan queried. "It _was_ your father's?"

Siroc nodded his head once in affirmation. "It's a story box," he explained. "I believe one of my uncles acquired it in England." At least, that was the story he thought he remembered. His father's oldest brother had traveled extensively before he joined the French military and later moved to the musketeer ranks when the corps was formed. Etienne Marcellus had been eleven, almost twelve years his father's senior. England had been his favorite land of respite, even with political tensions.

"Uncles?" Jacques asked, her voice a little surprised. She pulled off the brimmed hat, extended her arm and shook off the excess moisture from the shaped leather. She set it on the table in front of her.

Siroc flipped the box over, running his hand along the smooth bottom, trying to remember its secrets. "Two uncles." Siroc confirmed. He never knew them, therefore never felt the need to speak of the stories his father had shared with the twins. Donatien had loved them though, and sought to let them live on through tales of adventure, overly romanticized for his sister's benefit. "Both musketeers; both died before my father was of age. Never met them, but I'm told the one who purchased this was an eccentric. He had a fascination with odd things."

"Sounds like someone we know," d'Artagnan murmured, receiving a slap on the arm and a glare from Jacques, who sat beside him. He crossed his arms in front of him. "But how do we open it?"

Siroc rolled his eyes, but at least things were returning to normal. He could feel their eyes watching him, assessing him as if to determine his secrets. The last time they had been all together, the inventor had not been in the best frame of mind. He had just killed Maurice Vesey, and his strength had finally waned into nothingness. He had been asleep, under his sister's care, when his three friends had been sent to Lyon to uncover the rest of the Marcellus family secrets.

He took another deep breath and rolled his good shoulder, as if to cast off their gazes. "You have to know the story to open it. I believe this one —" The pads of his fingers traced the engraving of a man sitting upon a throne. Next to him was another throne, but it was empty. "— Is the story of a king, who needed a queen." His fingers moved to trace the next scene. Two warriors fought with broadswords. "A neighboring king was holding a tournament of arms. Any nobleman or king could fight or name a man to win the hand of the princess. He sent his strongest warrior. He was young and favored even above the king's nephew — his only heir."

"Archaic politics," Jacques muttered in a coarse tone, as if displeased by the story. She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with her gloved digits, and avoiding the strange looks from her captain. D'Artagnan and Ramon only smiled knowingly, while Siroc assessed her, wondering what exactly upset her. Perhaps, it was the bartering of a daughter to the highest bidder — or the best soldier as it was. He chuckled softly, reminding himself that a woman — especially one as strong-willed as Jacqueline — would not like a tale where the woman was traded for political gain. His sister had even flinched at the thought of the daughter's trade, at least until his father got to the more romantic notions of the story.

After a moment of silence, the blond continued, "The warrior went to the neighboring kingdom. He fought bravely and well, and won the princess for his king." He pointed to the last scene on the front panel, that of a woman in ancient dress with a man kneeling at her feet. "The return journey was long and arduous. The warrior spent many hours talking with the princess to pass the time, and they fell in love."

Siroc paused again, noting Duval's pursed lips and impatient expression, although the captain said nothing. Nonetheless, the inventor decided to hurry up the tale. "When they finally reached the warrior's kingdom, he did not want to give up the princess, but he had won her for the other man and would not break his oath. The princess married the king, but they continued to see each other. When the king found out, he had them killed."

Siroc cleared his throat. He spun the box, showing them the engravings on the back panel. "They were buried together. And although the king ordered no markers or ornaments, the servant girl who had journeyed with her princess planted rose bushes above their graves. Every year, they would grow, bloom and twine together — no matter how many times the jealous king cut them ba —."

"I don't understand how the story is supposed to help us open this," d'Artagnan interjected, shrinking back slightly when Siroc glared at him for interrupting.

"Patience is a virtue, d'Artagnan, but clearly not yours," the inventor said sardonically. After redirecting his attention back to the box, he cleared his throat. He pointed to the ornamental roses along the box's roof and also along the front, forming the frames of the panels. "If you do not know the story, you do not know of the roses, and if you do not know of the roses, then you do not know the importance the craftsman gave them." He traced his fingers along the seam of the box, pressing his thumb to one of the ornamented flowers. He twitched his thumb, and the head of the flower moved with a click. A series of gasps echoed around him. "Jacques, could you do the same to those two." He couldn't point, but he gestured to the flowers balancing the box's design. "Ramon, could you get that one." He gestured to the same end, but at the opposite corner.

As Ramon moved the last flower, the trio removed the lid cleanly from its body, revealing the contents. "I don't believe it," Jacques said, but whether it was because they had just opened the object she and her friends had been trying to access for three days or because of the folds of paper within its well — Siroc was uncertain. What mattered though was whether their journey to Lyon was worth the venture.

"It takes no less than two people to open it," Siroc added easily. He swallowed hard, not daring to touch the yellow-tinged parchment keeping his gaze.

Duval reached into the box, pulling out one of the pieces. It was sealed with wax and stamped with the same crest engraved in the box top. "Your father's seal is on this, Siroc. It may be another letter for you and Sancia." He handed the first to the inventor, and then fished again and unfolded one not closed with wax. Again the family crest was at the bottom of the page, and signed by DJM — documentation and reports all of which he had seen. The captain's eyes widened. "And I believe we have what we need …" He passed the paper to Siroc.

The inventor read carefully, only getting a quarter of the way through before his eyes widened. He jerked his head, staring hard at his commander, and then back at the paper. "It's … It's my father's account of all his dealings with Maurice Vesey, everything he —"

"— witnessed," Duval finished for him. He clapped his hand gently to the boy's injured shoulder, being careful not to hurt him. "And if the rest of these documents are anything like that one —"

The tingling sensation, the uncontrollable urge to act began to course through Siroc once more. "Sir, does this mean we — we will finally be presenting our case to the king?" He was eager and anxious all at once. The emotions buzzed through him, placing him on edge. A part of him wanted to flee, just in case the king did not rule in the twins' favor, while the other couldn't wait to face him in order to close the horrible chapter of his life.

Duval nodded. "I need to finish reading through these and prepare my report, but yes, I'll be sending word to his majesty, requesting an audience as soon as possible." He offered Siroc a reassuring smile. "All will be settled in one fashion or another by nightfall." He squeezed Siroc's shoulder once more, gingerly, and then let his hand fall away.

Siroc swallowed hard. He met the eyes of each of his friends. He drew strength that Duval would be there to plead their case, as would his brothers-in-arms. He had thought to stand alone against his past when everything had begun. Siroc and Sancia against the world — the way it had always been. But try as he may, his brothers – and new sister – had jumped headfirst into the murky waters that had sought to drown the genius. And it was because of these people, he knew that when it was all over, he would still be able to breathe.

"I'll go wake my sister," he told them. He rose with a confident air, an air of hope that filled him with strength. No longer was his stride weak and awkward as he walked. The pain could not quell the strength he had found in knowing the truth. His chin lifted a measure as he headed to Jacques' room, where Sancia had been staying. They had an audience to prepare for.


	32. Chapter 32

**SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Thirty-Two: Absolution**

Cardinal Mazarin wrinkled his nose in disgust. The cold, damp air of the subterranean tunnels reeked with the stale odors of earth, must and blood. The red fabric of his robes swished as he descended the staircase and then silenced when he reached the main chamber where the Order's business was served.

Cuffed in wrist irons and hanging from the crated metal wall at the far end was the captain of his guards, who had fled the musketeer attack at the ruins. Arrogance and self-assurance had been the man's downfall. The musketeers hunted for the leader in his eminence's service, and that left the Catholic cardinal in an awkward position. Being in such a place had little appeal to his grace, and even less now that he was forced to plan for whatever Captain Duval presented to the king.

"Tell me, Bernard," he said with cool indifference as he gaited leisurely through the room. "What am I to do with you?" His hands folded together as if in prayer.

"Your grace?" His parched throat prevented Bernard from saying more than a handful of choked words.

Mazarin picked up a dagger from the table. He flipped it in his hand idly as he walked back over to the beaten man. "You have failed me again, only this time, you allowed yourself to be seen." He stopped twirling the knife and held the smooth blade in front of him so that it was within Bernard's view. "Your actions endangered the Order, my guard and therefore, me. And —" He lifted the blade, placing the tip under Bernard's chin. The captain sputtered as he lifted his chin, trying to escape the weapon drawing a trickle of blood from his flesh. "— The Order was unable to prevent those meddlesome musketeers from retrieving the documents Marcellus collected on Vesey, which has also left me in an _awkward_ position."

Bernard tried to hold in a cough. The manacles binding his wrists rattled as he tried to escape from the cardinal. "If you let me go, I can rem — rem —"

"You can _remedy_ the situation?" the Cardinal countered sardonically. A low laugh emitted from his chest, growing into a reflection of a cold, heartless soul, instead of genuine humor. "Pray tell, Bernard, how are _you_ going to _remedy_ the situation? _You_, who allowed yourself to be seen. _You,_ who brought unnecessary attention to my guard. _You_, whose actions have raised questions about me and jeopardized my place in France!" His voice rose to a yell as he spoke and to a snarl by the time he uttered the last syllable of 'France.'

Mazarin spun away from his captive. He dropped the knife on the table as he passed it and paced the room. Promises of power had not garnered success from his captain, neither had punishments by the whip when it seemed his pleasant offers were fruitless. There was only one recourse after Bernard's disappointment. "No, your failures have lead to your downfall. The musketeers are searching for you, and you will be punished for treason should they ever find you." He laughed, as if the guardsman's fate was an irony. "No, I'm sorry, Bernard. But from this day forth, Captain Bernard is no more. You are dead."

The guardsman's eyes widened. "Your grace, please, I —" He sputtered and choked. His head dropped, rolling about his neck as he fought to lift it again. "Please, your eminence …" he begged for his life with every ounce of his strength.

The cardinal returned to his position before the battered man. "Relax, Bernard. As much as you deserve to die, I believe that would be far too merciful for the likes of you." He chuckled softly. "No, instead, you can live with the shame of your failures —" He paused, letting the captive absorb his words. "— In exile."

The look of horror on his subordinate's face would give him enough pleasure to survive the day and the dealings with the musketeers.

"Farewell, Bernard," he said as he turned to walk away. He waved a hand over his shoulder as his feet reached the winding, stone staircase. He paused, glancing back to the dangling wreckage of a human life. "I hope you speak Italian," he added and then left the former captain to whimper alone in the dark depths of the catacombs.

———

Siroc had stood at the base of the staircase so many times before. He had climbed them to the palace's main entrance, and countless times, he had crossed the threshold on musketeer business. A tinge of fear stirred his stomach into flips. He was beyond nervous.

His friends, the captain and even his sister had already climbed halfway to the main level. They hadn't noticed his pause, the way he wished to stall the audience with the king. He wanted more than anything to move directly to the happy ending and forget the chaos of his life.

Captain Duval would speak on their behalf. He knew more about the events before Donatien Marcellus' death than Siroc or Sancia, and Duval could attest to the validity of the documents his father had buried. Where hope stirred, doubt also lingered, and that tinge of emotion whispered for him to grab Sancia's hand and flee. The instinct had served him well in his youth and as a soldier.

The inventor took a deep breath. He lifted his chin and placed a booted foot upon the smooth, glossy stone before him. With each movement, he could feel the fear weighing down on his chest, constricting his breath. The fear was not for himself, but for the blonde woman dressed in fine attire and looking the part of an angel alongside his friends.

Sancia was not an angel, though; neither could one expect her to remain innocent on the course their lives took. However, Siroc had underestimated the depths of her involvement with their former master. She was not without sin, yet, he never imagined her guilt, her crimes could be viewed as grievous as Vesey's for so thoroughly helping him in his schemes.

Siroc had launched into a panic when she had sat him down earlier that morning to explain to him the depths of her involvement with Vesey. He had shouted at his sister in a manner he had not done since before the _fall_ of their parents. He had never once insulted her, only repeated the consequences that would befall any other subject in her position. He knew the law the way he knew the lay of his laboratory or the garrison in darkness. It had been her tears that had silenced him before his shouts could draw too much attention. The droplets had skirted down her cheeks in a stream, though she had not sobbed, until they had crested over the ridge of her jaw and had fallen to the dust of the floor. She only had whispered, 'I know, I know,' repeating the words as a mantra, until he had pulled her against his chest. She had sobbed then, and he had offered once more the chance at freedom — if they ran. But, she had refused in her determination to accept whatever fate her king bestowed upon her. She _would_ accept it and had made him swear that he would do the same.

'_Such faith.'_ Sancia had it in spades, although there were times she denied it. Siroc could see that faith now, written in her hopeful, although frightened, expression. He could see it in her smile, when he could not bring himself to unclench his teeth on the journey to the palace. He heard it in her voice when she reassured his friends — no, their friends — that this audience would go in their favor. Such was her strength that Siroc swelled with pride knowing she was his sister.

"Sirocco?" Siroc hadn't realized he had stalled in his climb while lost in thought until Sancia's sweet voice pulled him from his reverie. Her tiny feet peeked out from the hem of her skirts as she descended to his side. "Are you well?" she asked, placing a hand on his good shoulder. Worry etched her delicate features, creating creases in her brow and along the soft skin near her temples.

"I'm fine, Sancia," Siroc reassured. The muscles near his mouth twitched, lifting his lips into a wisp of a smile. "I grow tired easily."

Her hand slid off the curve of his shoulder and down the sleeve of his arm until she could grasp his hand. His dress uniform was immaculate; his hair had been combed into submission, yet his eyes betrayed him — they always did. "All will be well, Sirocco. I have to trust Duval. I have to trust our king," she reminded softly. Her eyes watered, but the tears did not brim as they had while alone in his quarters, when they discussed the specifics of her involvement with Vesey. "All will be well," she whispered, and then she smiled so brightly that even the sun would have been envious.

There was no denying her smile or its infectious nature. Siroc returned it despite his fears and tightened his hold upon her small hand. Trust — he had asked it of her when she didn't dare trust his brothers. Now, she was asking it of him, and he knew he had to relinquish. Together, they climbed until they reached where their friends waited patiently. Seeing their faces — strong, reassuring, without doubt — quelled the agonizing fear ripping at his insides. They were not entering the throne room alone, and somehow in that moment, he knew that he and Sancia would never be alone again.

He tightened his hold upon her hand as they entered the royal palace and made their way to the throne room of their sovereign. Their friends walked ahead of them, led by their commander. Their gaits held a beat of determination, of authority, of right. Siroc drew upon their strength and sucked in a lungful of air just as the palace servants opened the double doors. But, in the face of his young king, that strength threatened to wane.

In his years in the musketeers, Siroc had grown accustomed to the child king. His voice had yet to drop into the lower tones of masculinity, and he had a fascination with anything new or unique. Music, the arts and science fascinated the monarch. His cheerful demeanor was rarely subdued as he discovered the beautiful facets of the world.

Walking into the throne room today, however, felt like walking into a maelstrom. Queen Anne was present, dressed in the eloquence befitting any queen. Her hair was pulled back with tendrils of curls framing the smooth contours of her face. And then, there was Mazarin. That ever-present scowl would have been a comfort of familiarity if his eyes had not been focused on the pair of blonds at the back of the pack. His lip twitched maliciously, and it was that malice that hung in the room, darkening the mood of the usually vibrant sun king.

Louis only sighed as his troops entered and displayed the usual courtesies of court. Such formality forced Siroc to release his sister's hand, but he hardly realized the detachment while he continued to assess his monarch. The boy was hard to read at times. One moment, he was as bright as the sun, while the next, when something weighed heavily upon his mind, it was as if the world was coming to an end.

"Your majesty," Duval greeted formally. His cane softly thumped against the lavish rug adorning the room.

"Ah, Duval," Louis's high-pitched voice countered. "I see you've brought everyone." His lips pursed pensively. "I hope you are prepared to explain why my musketeers have been causing such a ruckus. Mazarin has been in a snit for days." He glanced to the cardinal at his left. "And it's doing nothing for my disposition."

The captain cleared his throat. "My apologies, your Highness, and I thank you again for your time and patience to prepare for this audience." He tilted his head and dropped his chin slightly in a 'bow' of acknowledgment.

Louis sighed again. He reached for a cup of coffee from one of his servants. He took a sip of the liquid, made a face and then waved his hand, dismissing the hovering man. "You said it would be worth my while, Duval. I hope that it is."

"It is, your Highness, however it is a long story," Duval prefaced.

Louis rolled his eyes. "Then, I suggest you explain, Captain, before Mazarin's grumpiness ruins my day any further."

"Your majesty," Mazarin cut in before Duval could speak. "These musketeers disobeyed direct orders from their captain, and therefore, you; they assaulted French soldiers at the Bastille, disrupted commerce; and that one —" He jerked his head to glare directly at the inventor. "— murdered Maurice Vesey, an outstanding businessman and friend to the crown."

"I believe outstanding businessman and friend to the crown is overstating Maurice Vesey's contributions," Duval countered coldly. "In fact, I have evidence that proves otherwise." A small puff of air escaped the musketeer's nose, flaring his nostrils.

"Oh, and what is this evidence? The word of two runaway slaves hardly counts for much." The wicked grimace on Mazarin's face flared into a dastardly smile.

"The word of two slaves counts a great deal when one of them is a musketeer." The tone of the captain's voice was sharp like a razor blade.

"Mazarin, do be silent and let the captain speak," the queen interjected. She placed her coffee cup down in its saucer and handed it off to a young woman. Never one to engage openly in politics, the queen mother still had the talent to chastise even the most powerful of men and put them in their place. She reminded Siroc, at times, of his mother.

The cardinal shrunk back in annoyance. "As you wish."

A small amount of tension faded from Duval. His shoulders relaxed; his posture loosening from the strenuously perfect pose he had held since entering the king's domain. "Your majesty, as you both know, I have served as a musketeer for many years, under you and your father." He cleared his throat before continuing. "I had the pleasure of serving with Siroc and Mademoiselle Marcellus' father, Donatien Marcellus. The sergeant-major was a devoted servant to the crown and one of the finest soldiers I have ever known. He left the musketeers when he married but still continued to serve your father at his request."

"What does this have to do with anything, Duval?" Mazarin interrupted. His arms wrapped behind his back, and he paced. "What does it matter that their father was a musketeer? He was tried and executed as a heretic along with his wife."

Siroc could feel every muscle in his body tighten, release and then contract again in anger. He had listened to the exchange in silence, drawing upon patience and remembering its virtue in trying situations. "And you would know, would you not, your grace?" he shot as he stepped forward, moving past his comrades to stand just to the right of his commanding officer. "Since you were the one that tried them?"

"Siroc." Duval's arm extended, preventing the young man from moving forward. He glared at the inventor until he stepped back. The blond lingered just behind the captain. With a sigh, the older musketeer returned his attention back to the monarch.

"If his parents were tried as heretics, Duval, it is within the church's right to do with the children as they wish as well as what they wish with any property or means. You know this." It was the queen who spoke. Her voice was regal, diplomatic and far pleasanter than the snarl threatening to escape the prime minister.

"Yes, I am aware," Duval responded. "Donatien and Raissa Marcellus were executed as heretics. Their children were sold to Maurice Vesey. However, before they were arrested, I received a letter from their father. He wished to speak to me about an urgent matter, although he would not say what." His voice waned. "I did not know the depth of his troubles until d'Artagnan, Leponte and Ramon returned from Lyon this morning. Based on this evidence, as well as several reports I received from the other garrison commanders, I believe that Vesey had the Marcellus' arrested because of evidence of treason and murder he had on Vesey and a secret order. I believe, your majesty, it was why he requested my assistance and why their children were sold into slavery."

Mazarin growled. "Watch yourself, Captain. The church is the highest authority when it comes to ecclesiastical law. The church does not …"

"I do not question the church's actions," Duval spat back. His baritone voice rose to silence the fuming cardinal. "After all, the Catholic church takes any and all accusations seriously and investigates them thoroughly in order to separate the wheat from the chaff." The double meaning of his words did not go unmissed by France's spiritual leader, who gritted his teeth.

"And what of this evidence against Vesey?" Louis asked.

Duval reached into his tunic coat and pulled out a leather fold, holding it up for all in the room to see. "Here, your majesty. They are signed accounts, written in Donatien Marcellus' hand regarding Maurice Vesey's allegiance to a secret order and their attempts to usurp your throne after your father's passing. There are also documents, signed by Vesey, that validate his claim. Furthermore, the reports I have received from the other commanders indicate that the children Siroc and the others rescued were indeed reported missing by local noblemen — noblemen renowned in their support of you, your Highness."

The soft thud of the captain's cane echoed as he moved forward to relinquish the papers to the king. "Some of those families were also murdered," he added sadly. "And, the children are all that remain." He stepped back. "The musketeers behind me, although disobedient, were acting in the best interests of the crown and in service to the citizens of France. Mademoiselle Marcellus is also privy to additional information should you wish to take her word."

Mazarin began to laugh. It started softly, only to increase in volume. The hairs on the back of Siroc's neck stood up. "And how exactly is Mademoiselle Marcellus privy to additional information?" Mazarin asked matter-of-factly. His face lightened, a mask to the dark matters swirling in his corrupt mind. "Unlike Siroc, she _served_ Vesey until her brother murdered him. If she held knowledge of Vesey's deeds, then she is just as guilty as he."

"No!" Sancia's cry surprised them all. "I — It wasn't like …" She looked to her brother for help, to every friendly face in the room as she sought the words to defend herself. But instead, to Siroc's surprise, she defended him. "My brother did not murder our master, your majesty. Vesey was killed when the musketeers attempted to arrest him so that he could face your judgment." She fidgeted with her hands. Her body shook. "Please, your Highness, Sirocco was only trying to protect me … and I was only trying to …"

"Then what Mazarin says is true?" Louis asked. "You had prior knowledge of your master's deeds, and yet you did nothing?"

Sancia looked to her brother, but Siroc only nodded in support. He held his breath, hoping that his sister — with her brilliant mind and gift for words — could plead her case. "Some would say, your majesty, that refusing to obey Vesey and forfeiting my life were the only honorable things to do." Sancia took a deep breath. "But if I had disobeyed, how many more of your loyal subjects would have died? By living, I was able to undo some of his ill deeds, warn the noblemen and save lives that I wouldn't have been able to if I was dead. I am a slave, your majesty, and I did all that a slave could do to protect the people my master had targeted."

"I am aware of Sancia's actions," Duval said when the girl fell silent. "Her deeds were also in several of the reports. One was not so favorable, but the rest mentioned how she had warned several of the noblemen of pending threats, as well as protected the children we recovered at the ruins outside the city. And unlike her master, the reports also indicate that she has never taken another's life." A look of pride washed over his aged features. "She is not a saint, but I believe she still has much to contribute for the good of France."

The room remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Siroc fished for his sister's hand again and pulled her close to his side. They were like children, waiting for punishment. Freedom was ideal, but he would take life for his sister as well. Her situation had been tactfully presented, and she had risen with such strength and faced the blazing sun — their king.

The aforementioned monarch sifted through the papers in his lap with a bored expression — the expression he always wore when matters of state interrupted his music lessons or other pleasures. "I shall review these further, Captain," Louis finally said. "After all, I do not wish to be too hasty on the matter. However, Siroc —" The genius' entire body stiffened once more. "— for your service in the musketeers, I will guarantee your freedom. And Sancia, is it?" She nodded in affirmation. "I believe I agree with Duval — that you could contribute much to the good of France if given the _freedom_ to do so."

"Your majesty?" Siroc questioned, not sure he understood what the boy king was insinuating. He dared to hope.

"She is free as well," the king said plainly.

"Your majesty, I must protest!" Mazarin interjected, earning glares from every person present. "The musketeers can no longer be trusted, and setting those two free …"

"Tell me, your Eminence," Duval cut him off. "Have your men had any luck in finding Captain Bernard? He seems to have disappeared." Siroc tried to hide the smile twitching at the edges of his mouth at his captain's poignant turn of attack.

"What has happened to Bernard, Mazarin, that your men would be searching for him?" Louis asked, curiously.

"It seems Captain Bernard was a member of the order noted within the documents I gave you, your majesty," Duval replied. "He was present at the ruins and threatened Mademoiselle Marcellus and my musketeers before disappearing when I arrived with reinforcements."

"Is this true?" Queen Anne asked, sounding slightly shocked.

Mazarin fidgeted slightly before plastering on the fake smile that was more malicious then soothing. "It appears my captain _was_ involved in some fashion, Highness," he said through clenched teeth. "And, he will be dealt with accordingly when he is found."

"Well, I should hope so," Louis stated, casting Mazarin an irritated glance. "Now, enough of this dreariness," he addressed his musketeers and the woman standing within their ranks.

Taking Louis address as a dismissal, they all showed proper respect before turning to stride out the double doors. The doors had barely closed behind them before Siroc pulled Sancia into a fierce, one-armed hug. He buried his face into her shoulder. The audience did not go exactly as he thought it would, but it hadn't turned out horrible either. They were free — without fear, without strings and in control of their destinies. The feeling outweighed anything Siroc had known, aside from the love he felt for his twin. "Free," he whispered in her hair, trying desperately not to cry. "We can — you can stay." It was, after all, all he ever wanted.

"No," she whispered back. Sancia pulled away from the warmth of his embrace. "I — I don't plan on staying here, Sirocco."

"What?" The question was echoed by the musketeers around her — none sounding more confused and out of sorts than Siroc.

Sancia bit her lip, chewing it. "I plan to return to Lyon." She tore her eyes from her brother to look upon each of the men (and woman) around her. "I've always planned to return there, Sirocco."

Siroc stood in silence. The hand of his free arm clenched into a ball. How could she leave him now, after everything? How could she …? No, he would not allow anger to form in place of happiness. He loved her too much. "Why?"

The woman tilted her head; her curls spilled over her shoulders. "I wish to see the children home, and someone has to try to make amends for all that Vesey has done, all that I've done. It's the right thing to do."

He nodded his head in agreement; it sounded logical and even noble. He knew by her tone that she had made this decision before they had even arrived at the palace. His throat choked. "It is your decision, San," he conceded, although he hated the concession even as it left his lips.

"It's the right decision. You know this," she tried to assuage.

"No, I don't 'know this,' but it is still your choice." Siroc leaned in and kissed her cheek before he turned from her and continued down the hallway. He did not look back to see if the others had followed but he could sense they hadn't. A barrage of questions echoed down the hall to his ears seconds later, and he knew that his friends would not easily let her go. She had become their family, as much as he was hers. He would respect her decisions, though, because she was right. She needed to build a life for herself, just as he had, and until then, she would always feel out of place in his world.


	33. Chapter 33

**SECRETS OF SIROC: Epilogue**

It was always darkest before the dawn, when the moon had set and before the sun rose. But life did not feel dark in those early hours of the day. Life had been good to the Marcellus family. The only shadow that remained for Sancia — the eldest of the Marcellus twins — was that her brother had not spoken to her since he had walked away from her at the palace after she told him she planned to leave Paris.

Sancia believed with all of her heart that he understood her need to leave. She had known slavery for most of her life; she longed to see the places she could only dream about. Who was she without Maurice Vesey's influence? Who was she without Siroc? Did the things that used to please her as a child, still please her today — now that she had the option to try them again? She needed to find her answers and forge her own way — such was the gift of freedom.

The young woman had been sitting in front of the common room fire for at least an hour. She had not been able to sleep for thoughts of her brother, what she would do upon her return to Lyon, or where she would go from there. She had always wanted to see the mountains in the German states or the great, ancient structures of bustling Rome. Or perhaps she'd take a walk through a vineyard in Northern Italy, and try her Italian on the locals. Could she even remember the bulk of her mother's favorite tongue? Siroc was the only soul she had spoken the language with since their parents' death. They were all such lovely dreams, pleasing questions, which she longed to have the answers to.

Her only heartbreak was that Siroc would not be there to share it with her, and she would not ask him to come with her. His duty was with the musketeers, just as her dreams guided her elsewhere. It would be unkind to ask him to accompany her, because then she would beg him, and he would cave in to her whims the way he did when they were children. She wouldn't allow herself to be so selfish, not when he could build his castles in the sky where he was.

Sancia sighed. She would miss him.

Siroc was awake. She had heard him clinking around in his laboratory since she got out of bed. No doubt he was as restless as she. He had been sleeping constantly, healing, but finally had a measure of his strength back. The past two days — since their trip to the palace — she had heard him roaming the halls of the garrison at all hours. He wandered in the night, as if he were trying to avoid anyone and everything. Avoidance was how the genius coped.

Slowly, she stood and made her way to his sanctuary, winding through the narrow halls lined with doors. Outside of his laboratory, the yellow glow of lamps and the firelight flickered into the hall through the open door. She stepped across the threshold, but lingered in the entryway — just beside the shelves.

The inventor's domain had changed since last time she was in it. His large worktable had been replaced; the books had been shelved; new ceramic jars sat on top of the fireplace mantel; and several unmarked barrels were stacked in the far corner. On the table top, a spidery array of glass tubes and containers was arranged. A clear fluid dripped from the end of one of the tubes and into a wooden bowl.

On the other side of the distillation arrangement, Siroc's golden eyes were large like a bug's, magnified by the distortion properties of the glass. Although his left arm was no longer in a sling, he only worked with his right hand — fiddling with the apparatus that kept clinking in musical tones. He kept his left arm tucked close to his body. Small lines creased his brow periodically when he would jostle his shoulder as he moved. He usually hid his discomfort, although anyone who had ever been shot could empathize with his situation.

"What are you doing, Sirocco?" she asked. The waves of her blond hair framed the softer lines of her face. Her eyes were soft, glimmering with secret mirth — the kind that comes from knowing a person in the heart and in the soul.

"Trying to improve the distillation for the explosive liquid," he answered evenly. His eyes never left his experiment, but his shoulders flinched when she had spoken — a telltale sign of the surprise he'd never admit.

"Be careful with it. You may have Duval's favor, but I don't think he'd be happy if you blew up the garrison," she teased, trying to ease her shaky nerves. She smiled, lightening her eyes and face with its euphoric effects.

He snorted disdainfully. "If you can successfully do it, Sancia, then so can I." There was a bite to his voice that raised her hackles, and her smile slipped away.

"You're angry with me." The words were more statement than question. She stepped farther into the room. Her hands rang the front of her dress. "I know you think I should stay, but you, of all people, must understand why I'm leaving."

"I understand, Sancia," he relented without much of a battle. He straightened his hunched form, looking at her over the top of his project. "But it doesn't make it any easier to …" He shook his head, and then ducked back behind his instruments. He quickly adjusted the drip, allowing it to flow at a smoother pace.

"Easy to what?" she asked. He had always been open with her. She would not let today be any different. She would not leave him on bad terms. She loved him too much. "Let me go?"

His magnified eyes closed and his hand fell to the table top as if her questions had sapped his strength. "We just found each other again," he whispered. His voice was broken. His face bore the lines of his distress across his brow, and if this were not her brother, she would have thought him on the verge of tears. He had cried in front of her before, but never over something so small. He was far too strong to let distance between them hurt his heart.

However, Siroc's dejected tone was all Sancia could take. She crossed the room, rounded the table and pulled him into a tight embrace. "We will always be together, Roc. You are the half that makes me whole." Tears leaked as her emotion-filled words escaped. "I love you, my brother."

The young man buried his face into the side of her hair, breathing in her scent. She had a way of comforting him, and the delicate scents of flowers and soap only added to her calming effect. "I know, Sancia," he whispered. "But it does not make letting you go any easier." He withdrew from her embrace. His hands caressed her cheek, whipping away the falling droplets. "No one wants you to go: Not Jacques or d'Artagnan, not Duval, not me." He smiled. "And most assuredly, not Ramon."

Sancia blushed under her brother's scrutiny. "He is a good man," she complimented, but otherwise masked her thoughts. She had much in common with the Spaniard, and her fiery temperament and way with words seemed to appeal to him. But such affections were but seedlings, not ready to bud much less flower, and definitely not before Sancia discovered who she was in this life.

"You won't even stay for him," Siroc observed, as if he had held a shred of hope that love might bind her to this place. But how could it, when the person she was most bound to — her brother — could not even sway her to stay. "You truly are determined to return to Lyon?"

Sancia smiled again. "Stubborn like a demon with the face of an angel," she remarked in the hopes of making him smile. She began to laugh when Siroc caught on to her mirth and began to chuckle.

"That describes you accurately, I should think." He crossed his arms, being careful of his aching shoulder. A lopsided grin graced his features, giving him a boyish air. "This, I believe, is what I'll miss the most."

"Nonsense." She waved her hand dramatically. "Soon, you'll be off on another adventure with your friends and time will pass like the Seine. You'll hardly miss me." Her face grew serious in that thoughtful moment. She knew he would miss her. Their unbreakable bond could not be severed through time or distance. She only hoped that time and his friends would protect him in the space between.

"Sirocco?" she asked quietly, remembering that his next mission would come soon after she returned to Lyon. "Have you read father's letter?"

The inventor shifted uneasily. He turned and began taking notes on his experiment once again. "Yes." He scribbled a few lines in the notebook lying open on the table.

"Did you tell Duval?" She leaned against the table's edge. They were so close that the fabric of their clothing shifted against each other.

"No, I haven't." He spoke as if the topic were a matter of housekeeping that he would get to later.

Her head spun reflexively to stare at him. "Why ever not?" Her eyes were wide.

"Because it was a technically a private letter. And besides, you are the brash one and I am the one that considers the details. I have not decided what to do as of yet," he said dryly. "And, there is also the fact that I spend most of my time sleeping still."

"But you will?" she pushed. "Tell him?"

Siroc stood erect, turned around and leaned against the table so that he was shoulder to shoulder with the elder twin. "I will look into the contents of the letter, Sancia, but the intelligence has held for twelve, nearly thirteen years — a little longer will cause little harm."

She leaned in, placing her head on his shoulder. "Just don't wait too long, Roc. I should hate to return and find you've only just left."

Siroc dropped his head, resting his cheek on her hair. "I'll always be here, San."

She knew he always would be there. Perhaps not so much in the physical sense, but in the fact that he would always be there for her when she needed him. There would be times that he would take her hand and lead her out of danger, while others, he would be the shoulder she cried upon.

Sancia didn't want to cry anymore though. What she wanted was one last happy memory to keep her until she returned to him. A sly smile graced her lips. "Sirocco, I plan on leaving tomorrow, you know?"

"Yes, I am aware." He sounded almost dejected over the thought.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. Their eyes met, keeping locked as she continued her line of questioning. "Will you do something for me before I go?" She would name her price, but only after he agreed.

"You know I'd do anything you asked, San." Such words famously led to regret.

"Spar with me. Like when we were young." Sancia's smile widened when her brother jerked away, standing up straight.

Siroc shook his head negatively. His lips pursed pensively. "Absolutely not, Sancia. My shoulder has barely healed and besides …" he scoffed. "You cheat."

Sancia feigned shocked. "I do not cheat — at least not very often," she confessed the truth at the last. "Please, Sirocco. It would cheer me immensely and I know you'll have fun as well."

"No." The single syllable was his last dejection before he went back to his work and pretended she was not standing beside him. He chewed his lower lip as he watched the flowing liquid course through the glass tubes. His eyes followed the path to avoid his sister's gaze.

With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she leaned close to his ear. "What's the matter, Roc? Are you afraid you'll lose to a woman?"

"No," he said quickly. He took a step to the left, trying to escape her persistence.

"I think," she said sweetly, but still keeping her air of mischief. "That you _are_ afraid. But I don't blame you. After all, you are second born, you cannot help but be …"

Siroc turned, his movement so fast they nearly collided. "Don't even say it, San!" he barked. His jaw set in annoyance.

"Then spar with me, Sirocco." She picked up his rapier from the table on the wall behind him, the place he usually kept it. Slowly, she withdrew it from its sheath. She extended her arm, feeling the weapon as an extensive of her limb. "I promise I will not embarrass you."

He crossed his arms, tucking his hands between his arms and his torso. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" he asked rhetorically.

Sancia squealed with delight.

———

Dawn had come with its usual grace and with it the endless chatter of nature. Birds darted about the garrison courtyard, diving until they almost smacked the cobblestone and then pulling up at the last moment to soar high above the rooftops. The sun warmed the earth, dampened by dew and the light rain from the night before. The moisture left a chill in the air that only a good workout would ward off. Barely any stirred inside the military headquarters, if any at all, thus leaving Sancia and Sirocco alone in their play.

They twins stood in the middle of the courtyard. Sancia's long hair hung freely about her shoulders. It cascaded over the work dress she had thrown on when she rose. The blues of her gown were faded, warn and slightly frayed around the edges. It was the perfect attire for war — for a warrior woman was what she resembled. Her eyes burned with the brightness of a million suns. Her free-flowing hair blew wildly in the slight breeze. She rotated the hilt of her blade across the back of her hand so quickly that it was back within her clutches before gravity could do its work. The lady was prepared to face the man across from her.

In contrast, Siroc stood stoic. He kept his left arm wrapped across his stomach and clutched at the white fabric of his undershirt to keep his arm secured. He would have wore his sling, but knew that the extra fabric would hinder his movements more so than if he just kept his wounded arm tucked for safety. He wanted nothing to bridle him against his sister's game, for Sancia always found a way to use his handicaps to her advantage. With his shoulders back, his head held high, he lifted his sword arm and leveled his blade. He swiped it quickly in salute, and then did what he did best. He waited for the aggressor to come to him.

Sancia had always been first to strike when they'd spar as children. The difference, however, was that Siroc was much better with a rapier than he had been at eight. He hated fighting, wishing only for his father's books or to witness his father's feats. Donatien had been nothing short of amazing to the son who worshiped him. But that was then and Siroc was stronger, taller and, he hoped, wiser. Yes, he had several handicaps at the moment, but that meant he would just have to outthink his sister, which really was all it came down to — the ability to out-match your opponent with the methods in your arsenal.

True to form, Sancia began her attack leisurely. She would extend her sword, taking aim at his appendages first. With each calculated jab, Siroc quickly deflected the blow, leaving her to try the same tactic on the opposite side. When her attempts failed, she crossed her legs as she moved — one behind the other. She kept her circle wide, pausing at each quarter to try the soft prods of Siroc's defense. He continued to deflect with ease, smirking in his knowing way, but all the while bidding his time until her offensive strikes would come full blown.

In and out, one breath and then two, and the battle had begun. Sancia's attack was swift, starting out with the smaller assaults before her blade moved from side-to-side in a blinding blur. Siroc had no problem countering the fluid strokes. His arm lifted and fell, deflecting the blade with ease. He retreated in his steps as she drove him hard, only to skirt to the side as she lunged to strike at his mid-section. As she stumbled off balance, he swatted her on the backside with the edge of his blade.

His smirk grew into a devilish grin as she yelped loudly and jumped back. "Is that all you have, San?" he asked, quite pleased with their game thus far.

Her hand massaged the sting she had received. "And you call me a cheat, Roc." She growled, annoyed that he had managed to embarrass her with the act. He had never done anything like it to her before, but if he wanted to play at such things, the petite female was happy to oblige.

She readied her arm and narrowed her eyes, trapping her brother in the dagger-filled gaze. Sancia was determined now, but hardly angry. They would tease and taunt each other until one was crowned the victor, and the girl was determined that her reign would continue. But the arrogant air that wafted from her brother in near tangible waves made her a bit uneasy — her arm slackened a fraction, leaving her vulnerable.

Siroc took the opportunity to go on the offensive. He cut his blade upward, knocking her flimsy arm to the side before she could react. She squawked in surprise, but recovered fast enough to deflect the bulk of his blows driving her back toward the courtyard gates. Siroc was much stronger, and the weight of each strike tired her arm. She panted, sucking in air as if it were the drug that would keep her moving. Beads of sweat formed on her creased brow, and a single droplet trickled past her temple.

Sancia was not the only one overwhelmed by their dance. They had only been at their game for a short time, and already Siroc's left shoulder throbbed from the exertion. Was he crazy for agreeing to this match? He had begun to think so, especially since he still spent the bulk of his nights and days asleep. His face flushed from the exertion; his breathing grew ragged; and the endless scratching of metal against metal continued to reverberate throughout the courtyard, mingling occasionally when either fighter would shout.

Those very cries slowly drew a handful of soldiers, who were gathering near the garrison entrance. They watched the battling duo, whispering amongst each other about the quiet inventor and his opponent. The musketeers reveled in delight when the upper-hand would change — first to Siroc and then back to Sancia, neither of which had noticed the group clustering nearby.

The dueling slowed, but the circling did not cease. They watched each other like hawks prowling for food from high above. Their movements were animalistic, predator while they waited for the other to strike once more. As was tradition, Sancia advanced first. She whipped her blade in hard, downward strokes, trying to dislodge her brother's rapier, but he only managed to deflect, circle his blade around hers, and then push her back. She growled through her heaving breath.

"You never did have the patience for dueling, Sancia," he chided. It was his patience after all that gave him the upper hand in many fights, when his skills were no match.

"Patience only balances skill and I believe I still have the upper hand, _little_ brother," she replied sweetly, for in that moment, she had found the perfect opening.

Just behind her brother was a puddle that had yet to evaporate with the sun. She jerked her body as if she were going to attack. Siroc stepped back to avoid her. His boots slipped on the wet stone and he landed hard in the puddle behind him.

He growled indignantly, but could not keep the smile from forming on his face. Countless times he had landed in pools of water and mud when they would duel on their family estate. Sancia had a knack of putting him in his place, which in dueling meant someplace damp.

He didn't have much time to reflect on his wet backside. Her rapier came down. He caught the sunlight glinting off her blade, seconds before it struck the cobblestone. He had just enough time in that moment to draw his blade and arms close to his body and roll across the ground. One, two, three rolls he managed before he flattened his foot against the stone and used his sore arm to launch himself back to his full height. His arm throbbed in protest, and he could not hide the pain that etched his face.

Sancia's progression slowed. She held back, watching Siroc clutch his arm. "Are you all right, Roc?" she asked. She usually would not yield, but this was supposed to be fun, not destructive.

"I'm not yielding to you, sister," he said evenly. His chin lifted slightly; his jaw set in determination. For once in his life, he was going to win one of their matches, even if he had to play his sister's favorite card and cheat.

"Very well." Her words were the only hint that their game was back on. She charged him and he rushed backward as well. He jumped onto the hay cart and leaped higher in the air when her blade swiped at his feet. He used the momentum to vault behind her and returned to middle ground. His body would hate him later for such a stunt.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't hesitate to advance on him again. As she rushed him, her golden eyes caught sight of the crowd massing along the edges of the courtyard. Among them were a sleepy looking d'Artagnan, a bright-eyed Jacqueline and a rather animated Ramon.

"Come on, Siroc, don't let a woman beat you," d'Artagnan called in encouragement, baiting the woman soldier beside him with his arrogant remark.

She glared at the Gascon before adding her support. "Come on, Sancia, show them what you're made of!"

Ramon cried next, but the twins had returned their attention back to their duel. Sancia dropped into a ball and rolled when her brother swiped at her head. She rolled easily out of the ball and back onto her feet. She pivoted on one foot and brought her weapon up just in time to deflect the secondary blow. She pushed hard, causing her brother to stumble backward. She used his off-balance to crash the rapier down countless times in a matter of seconds to dislodge the weapon from his hand. When he started to loose his grip, she dropped and swept at his legs.

For the second time that morning, he landed into a pool of cold water. His blade flew just out of reach as he landed. He blinked in surprise up at the figure standing over him. Sancia smirked as her rapier waved in front of his face.

"Do you yield, _little_ brother?" Sancia mocked, for clearly she had the upper hand.

Siroc scowled. "Never."

"Never?" she echoed. "Come now, Roc. Your weapon is out of reach and mine is in your face. I'd love to see you get out this one … but since you cannot, the honorable thing to do is yield — to me — yet again." She was enjoying herself far too much.

But even as she spoke, Siroc's eyes flitted from her face, to his rapier, to her feet. He formulated a plan in those moments that brought a smile to his face.

Sancia tilted her head; her brows furrowing. "What are you …" She never finished the question. As she had spoken, Siroc's boot had edged just behind her heal. He hooked his toes, yanked at her foot and knocked her to the ground. Her blade cut upward out of his face as her arms flailed in the arm. He reached, moving his body enough to grab his blade and was on his feet before his sister landed on her back. Her weapon hit the stones with a loud clank as it bounced.

She blinked in surprise at the man now hovering before her. A wicked smile lit his features. His unruly bangs hung partly in his eyes. "I may be second born, Sancia, but it seems I am no longer second best." He chuckled, softly at first from the hollow of his chest, but it grew in volume when he heard the calls of his brothers-in-arms.

He had won, no matter how she tried to finagle her way out of it. He had won a match for the first time in their lives. She was not so proud that she did not feel joy in watching the happiness envelope his demeanor, neither was he so vane to admit that she did have the upper hand through most of the battle.

Siroc extended his hand, righting his sister to her feet. "When you return to me," he said quietly through his heaving breath, "and my arm has healed, we'll do best two out of three."

Sancia tightened her grip on his hand. "Every day," she promised.

She slipped her arm around his waist as he led her back toward the garrison doors. They paused so that she could retrieve her blade and then settled comfortably back into his side. As they reached their friends and the other musketeers, there were general calls of congratulations to Siroc and well-dones even for his petite sister. But what Siroc held on to the most in the aftermath of his first win over his favorite sparring partner wasn't the fact that he had won; it was the fact that someday, they'd be able to do again. No matter how far she roamed, he knew she would always come back to him and they would always have each other. It was the sweetest consolation, in lieu of the greater prize — having his sister by his side everyday.

THE END

_AUTHOR'S END NOTES: I've been working on this story since the Spring of 2005. Yes, I said it. Five years. Chapter 32 and the Epilogue have actually been written since last March, but I am a very busy person and finally made time to finish the edits and post._

_About this story, well, it is my first novel-length fan fiction story. I had a recent review note that my writing has gotten better as the chapters have progressed — I should hope so, since I've spent five years working on this. I use fan fiction, though, as a practice tool for my writing, to discover what I like and what I don't like. As you've read through the 33 chapters, I'm sure you've noticed different voice, even different style, and that's because, as my first story, I really was trying to find my voice as a writer. Looking back, there are many things I would do different, but ultimately, I'm glad that I can finally tag the story as complete after ten months of the final chapters waiting for me to edit them and five years overall._

_This story really is for the people who got me started with it and honestly have helped me most as a writer. Without them, their encouragement, and overall support as I played with my first fan fiction, I wouldn't now be working on my original stories._

_So, mayor thanks goes to my Sally girls. Sally 'Jedi' and Sally 'Jean.' I tag this complete for you ladies._


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